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THE PERSIMMON LADY

just beyond the sagging gate
     Mrs. Bodine’s old house stands, empty.

in the back yard weathered persimmon trees
     stand guard over the garden’s remnants.
 
leaves rust-red in October, ochre and bronze
     scatter down from the persimmon’s hard slender limbs. 

copper leaves slowly falling away, one by one
     their orange-red globes hanging on patiently.

this display of ornaments hangs from nude branches
     as if Mrs. Bodine left them there to decorate the season.

memory of persimmon's mellow sweetness 
     permeates into my tongue taking me back to my cozy childhood. 

“Ripe ones are soft and brown-spotted…  
     sniff the bottoms…the sweet ones will be fragrant.”

we gathered persimmons in yard-wide baskets
     filling them with mounds of just picked persimmons.

autumn evenings spent eating persimmons with Mrs. Bodine,
    her fireplace warm and fragrant with wisdom and persimmon leaves.  

“Peel the skin tenderly, she said, “not tearing the meat.
     Chew the skin, suck it, and swallow. Now, eat.”

the meat of the fruit sweet and jelly-soft, 
     a luscious topping for her crisp buttered bread.

like its namesake, Persimmon Tree is sweet, evocative~
     consume all of it taking it to one’s heart.

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