-This poem reflects on persimmons as a symbol of patient ripening, where sweetness comes not through haste but through time, maturity, and the willingness to let becoming complete itself.
They hang like lanterns in the leaves,
small amber suns among the green,
their skins made warm by August light,
their sweetness waiting underneath.
The branches carry them with ease,
though every fruit has gathered weight,
from rain, and heat, and patient days,
from all the tree was asked to hold.
Not everything is ready now,
some sweetness needs a little time,
the fruit must soften toward itself,
before the bitter gives away.
So much of late summer knows this,
that ripening cannot be hurried,
the sweetest things become themselves,
when given light, and time, and grace.