Here it is:


The Persimmon

Yields to the touch,
So we touch it not,
Merely passing flesh
Through flesh.

It melts,
It weeps,
Its orange tears seep
When left too long
Alone.

'Tis meant to be eaten
Only in its true time;
Brought gently,
With reverence,
To its throne –
Mouth of mine.

The persimmon skin
Glitters,
A day-lantern
To air critters
Who, before ‘tis ripe,
Want to eat the fruit.
So while I sit here and type,
They go and loot!
They peck and guzzle
At my hanging stash;
Picking one, then the next –
Oh are they brash!

Jelly so subtle,
And syrupy,
That grants sustenance
Happily.
A brilliant gem
Is the perfect piece,
Whose beauty
Doth ne'er cease,

When summer leaves
Fall
And frosts,
Creeping, crawl,
The lone persimmon reaches its peak,
Kindling cold season’s ember,
Saving grace in the temperate climes
Through each bitter winter.

When last its fruits
No longer bear,
Fine ebony
Maketh sturdy chair
That young and old
Can sit in fast
And remember
Rich fruits long past.

- By Luke Sartor

you're good at this Luke!