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.

 

 

 

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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.