. . We're sick of green,
of weeds reseeding, lurid pokeberries
bunched and fat. The season's mean
with an open, metaphorical
kind of discipline. The walnuts are thick
with walnuts, but stripped by wind of leaves.
Persimmons soften for our sake.
I'll strain them for their pulp when they
are almost rotten; we'll celebrate
the sweetness of decline - fall's little
ditty, where mercy rhymes with fate.
Selection of Tree Fruits
APR/Honickman First Book Prize
American Poetry Review
Copper Canyon Press, 2011©