A Persimmon's Idea of Far

Among persimmons

shining sickly sweet forever,

my father walks, far,



far from seedlings and

Persephone, in autumn,

the underworld so near.



Far from the life he

has grown for himself, far from

being chased by



butcher-knife mother-

drunks, no longer crouched in

closets or Vietnam



fatigues, and now, just

when he can see, glaucomic

fog takes the edges



only midnight white

looms, dead ahead - just when he

shakes long shadows loose.



Orange orbs blaze like hair

but taste fades as light beckons,

orbs swish in the wind,



dangle for Hereafter,

staring hungrily, waiting

for the bitter seeds.



Unfair it is: seeds

have sprouted, grown roots and wings,

transcended time and



camo mail missions,

dropped messages, avoided anti-

aircraft fire, the ground



gunners unaware

his enlisting for this

rescued him from



kitchen pitchers of

vodka lemonade, the ones

Mother drank when his



father drove silver

buses that staggered like

Mother, home alone.



Can a persimmon

know each cackle betrays the

glee of survival?



As sibilant gusts

hush the trees, rock the seeds, cup

them, so matronly,



does my father (orange

to hard-wood, overripened)

know that he can see?



Does fruit know before

the fall that it's wait is short,

that the time is near,



though it's come so far?