One time Karen came back
Uncle Johnny gave Karen a green persimmon,
Beth says to me in the pantry
off the kitchen where the desert table
gathers people like myself.
Beth walks me through sweet possibilities
of sugar and chocolate.
This is my Persimmon Pudding
and you top it with fresh whipped cream
from my cow, Beth says.
Two helpings later I ask her
about the rumor of home-made ice cream.
3 O'clock, Beth says, Seven flavors.
These persimmons grow inside a narrow band
of Indiana. Not to be confused
with California Persimmons.
Diospyra, fruit of the gods,
Putchamin, pasiminan, pessamin,
from the Powhatan, Cree and Mohican,
I'll find out later, from the family
of ebony--after my third dish,
after Persimmon Ice Cream,
after the story of the day,
where Karen finds how many ways
she belongs, teased and enticed
into being. How many ways
Karen became herself turning her story,
sweetening it, rich and rare,
farm cream for Persimmon Pudding.
11 July 2010
EVERYBODY WAS YOUNG BACK THEN
Light and breeze in afternoon lace curtains
Silences in the house
Waking in a forest of birdsong
Look at that hand writing
May gold dust fall on us all in our talk
Our hands afterall full of star dust
10 July 2010
Look here, Jim,
I planted Red Pontiacs,
but these are purple.
They must be Caribe's
come up on their own.
I haven't grown
purple potatoes in years.
10 July 2010
New Ross, Indiana