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.
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