My head lolls off this slope
and I gaze past the hill upside
down, half asleep, the cushion
of the earth tempting to roll down
in. Though the thrill
would be short lived,
a shower of soot waiting
for me at the bottom.
I sit upright to escape the bright
sun, not feeling up to shine.
I hide my head and walk
until I am safely tucked under
the lone broadleaved hulk,
where I can spy in the shade.
I peer into and through
the branches above me
and deep within there’s a batch
of fruit as if a gift for those who pay
attention, care beyond the outside.
On my tiptoes I pluck the nearest
one and hold it between my forefingers.
It’s an unfamiliar shape, the color
combination bursting with energy,
its limited lines passionate. It
appears sour, but the next moment
it’s honey sweet in my mouth.
I expect it to be soft as a peach,
but my teeth are at war
with the skin that’s tougher
than an apple.
Having never been told
to come here, the persimmon
is as unpopular as its color,
but that treatment
makes it rare, exquisite.
I face the bark and mold my
fingers into the wrinkles,
swearing an oath
to protect this tree.
Jacklyn is fifteen years old, and from New Jersey. She likes to write poetry while drinking a matcha bubble tea. Her work has been recognized by Creative Communications, Runes Magazine, and more.