Persimmons in August
Persimmons, bite one green
fallen early from the neighbor’s
tree down the street,
wince in puckered pain;
discarded by some wise, sagacious
squirrel as entirely inedible.
It is better to wait past September
when iced with frost the skin
develops a silver-orange hue,
and the flesh is honey-sweet gold.
I remember the dry, pale yellow wine
a friend once made of pressed pulp:
a refreshing light tartness.
Pocket seeds salvaged from
fruit gleaned along the pavement.
Take them home, scatter them out
by the backyard fence.
One day we may eat our own
persimmons from our trees,
but like the squirrel—never green.
c. Darlene Moore Berg