M. T. C. Cronin


He climbed a persimmon tree
And became a persimmon
For four and half hours
And when they came
He had to question them
If they were human
Because their names
Were in their pockets.
As a persimmon Lindsay
Was very successful
If out of season
And heavy for the branch:
When nameless they came
To lay the tree down
He was as sweet
And without fear as a fruit.
Becoming a persimmon
Is good for a man
And becoming a man again
Is like something
You must admit.
The persimmon in its skin
Unlike a man knows
Exactly what destiny
Is doing today.

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, April 26, 2018

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