wild persimmon

It was in a dream, I think, where her mouth was a wild persimmon. It grew by a shimmering stream, near the wetland ferns.

Who could wait?

But it was ripe, right, fleshy, full – this one.

I've been here before, down the slopping hill below the earthen levee. I've walked these now-concrete-covered trails in the months after the yellow jackets stop flying. Looking, always looking, hands full before I ever start. How many have I dropped just to snatch another? Too many, I think.

Ah, this is different, this full-grown dream. (It always is, this one). This one sends me back, back to windows fogged, raining, at the lock and dam.