the taste of persimmon after the frost

its sugar clinging to my yearning lips

born of a precious seed once be’lieved lost

concealed within a field of rosen hips

a musky perfume hangs upon the air

arisen from a garden doused in dew

the tender tended fruit does swell and flare

as the silken petals reveal their bloom

what joy it is to sup upon such flesh

which invites one to feast upon its folds

so bashful blushing pungent pink and fresh

a pleasure for the eyes for to behold

there truly is nothing sweeter than this

the honeyed southern warmth of nature’s kiss