The persimmon yet burns
on the branch beyond our window,
twisting in the sun.
Soon the wind will plump it down.
Your flesh glows in the post noon light
while the sea wind clamors
at our door.
(Time collapses;
it is spring.)
You also are rooted in earth,
out of which you soar.
Does the ghostfruit
fly on upwards after itself falls?
Your face lifts me in its wake
while you race toward heaven.
Deya 15 April 1980
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.
I like that there’s no explanation, leaves one to wonder. Initially, I thought it was your poem, but quickly recognized Patrick’s signature. ?