Pawpaws

Autumn’s rumor is spread in turning trees, revealed like stains on hems of far Missouri hills. Few search or care or know your soft fruit— few dare taste tart sweetness— trouble to spoon aside infestations of seeds. Like seasons, they go to waste— not savored, unused, unappreciated— burled relatives, overripe pawpaws past remembering, lingering as age spots of early fog on winter’s stern harvest.