Fondly remembering,

fondly anticipating the return of Fuyu in late summer, early fall.  Isn't time that slender thread in the moment connecting past and future?   

I used to revel with Fall foliage

now, it's the pursuit of persimmons.  The Fuyu season is finite but rewarding.  Of course, a sugar maple or two will not be overlooked.  Fall is an awe-filled season.  Crispness is definition, is boundary.  

Do you peel your poems before eating?

Do you peel a Fuyu persimmon while reading your poem?

Skin. Flesh. Paired and paring.

Do most poets write on a single theme?

Nine out of ten times? Or nine years out of any decade? Perspective is personal and singular and in the execution, plural. Word choice. Word order. Events do alter. Like aging. And the experience of taste.




If seasonal were not the issue, would most cooks favor a particular food -- morning, noon, and night. This is personal: there is no dish, dear, in which I would not insinuate a Fuyu persimmon.