Persimmon Season
A November poem about gratitude and generosity
So a quietly lovely thing happened while I was watching, one day last November. And I wrote a poem about it, because that’s what I do. Then I did some baking, which is altogether not what I usually do, but I had a feeling it would work that time. Persimmon pudding (more of an extra-moist cake, really) is a storied holiday dessert in my family; it tastes best if someone’s given you the persimmons.
THREE PERSIMMONS 2024
Saturday’s afternoon light slants toward darkness
and I am sweeping the courtyard around my church,
when in with the November leaves comes drifting
one of the neighborhood’s pilgrim souls, pleased
that I recall her name, hoping to go inside
to make her prayers. The door is locked
but I have a key, and while I climb the steps
she roots in her backpack, tucks three persimmons
into a plastic sack, and holds them out to me
as the church door swings open. They aren’t ripe yet,
she tells me, put them with an apple in a paper bag
and leave them by a window till they’re soft.
I thank her, exclaiming; she offers me a fourth persimmon
which I decline; she disappears inside the church,
emerges moments later to wave and drift away,
still on her pilgrimage. I finish sweeping,
climb the steps once more, enter the church myself
to listen for her prayer, to add my own;
I find no words, hear nothing but my footsteps
whispering to the floorboards as I pace the aisle.
And now three days have passed, and three persimmons
sit still in their plastic sack on my kitchen table,
and if I can find no words I ought at least to find
an apple to befriend them, a brown-paper sanctuary
to shelter them along their way, their pilgrimage
to ripening, to readiness, to being-gift.
There is so much to love about this poem, not the least of which is the sense of connection I feel. Connection between God and church family, community and, of course, freely-given bounty.
I feel like I remember this poem. It’s so lovely. Such a gift.