Persimmon Whiffler

(A Slant-rhyme Sonnet) As autumn treads across our piebald patch, she drops her frost to shelter, soft as wool, but brilliant blossoms curl in moonlight watch and shrink beneath the snap of hoarfrost cool. Then every critter lodged inside the farm begins to hide a hoard of winter chow, use nature’s fabric fluff to cradle warm and stash in cache beneath the muted show. Persimmon limbs are bowed with orange loot which deer desire if hunger leaves them poor. The frost has signaled time as under foot true sweetness swells at autumn’s open door. I rush before the deer, with knife in hand to read the seed as weather forecast wand.