Before The Persimmons Became Ripe




I went hiking today to escape you.


Down the trail I was greeted by a dog with your name.


Made my eyes sting.


A sweet scent caught my nose and reminded me to breathe.


A boy said “It’s the persimmons!”.


I told you I wouldn’t forget you laughing under the persimmon tree.


How that early fruit numbed my mouth and made us into children.





Where Hidden Things Go

The black cat and I sit several yards  from one another,  both eye level with October’s Friday the 13th.


He sits like a reflection, a parallel thought that I’ve just been permitted to see.


His eyes are summer’s

last green hiding place; I envy the way the emeralds translate his intention.


He turns his gaze away toward a sound I cannot hear. Is he weary of being a martyr for superstition?


Then, black as hidden light and silent, he ushers summer backwards around a lost corner so that he doesn’t cross my path.


In his place I see the shape of a voice I know but cannot name,  a memory that has no memory and will later carry itself around lost corners unnoticed yet missed.