Between the dams, I get off my bicycle
At the orange splotches alongside the road.
Their fruit print pattern an indication of this . . .
It is autumn and time to taste the smoky
Sweet juice, the fruit darkened almost to brown
And hard to get at, the seeds so large,
Hard to get at but worth it. I gather a handful
And put them in my bike bag, stare into
The bruised sky and consider climbing the tree
For more. At home, I wash them and take them
Out on the back porch. My phone buzzes,
A message from someone who is lost.
He doesn’t know what persimmons are,
So I will save half of them until he gets here.