The foliage had fled at first-frost
and what remained were the gray fingers
that had once clinched the fruit
the same way the fruit contains
the seed and the seed remains
pillowed in the viscous orange orbs.
First-snow sifts down into the crevices
of the desolate branches, cradling
the ripening harvest, dangling,
a hundred shrunken pumpkins
in a tree.
The cold, filtering snow,
the leaves on the browning grass below,
the northwest wind clacking
the sapless twigs all seem to say:
all living things to the earth return;
let go, let go.
Sonny Rainshine
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/american-persimmon-tree-against-snow/
