The foliage had fled at first-frost <br />and what remained were the gray fingers <br />that had once clinched the fruit <br />the same way the fruit contains <br />the seed and the seed remains <br />pillowed in the viscous orange orbs. <br /> <br />First-snow sifts down into the crevices <br />of the desolate branches, cradling <br />the ripening harvest, dangling, <br />a hundred shrunken pumpkins <br />in a tree. <br /> <br />The cold, filtering snow, <br />the leaves on the browning grass below, <br />the northwest wind clacking <br />the sapless twigs all seem to say: <br />all living things to the earth return; <br />let go, let go.<br /><br />Sonny Rainshine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/american-persimmon-tree-against-snow/
