Persimmons

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Eating fruit and reading poetry, what could be a more decadent friday morning?

“Oh, the feel of the wolftail on the silk,   
the strength, the tense
precision in the wrist.
I painted them hundreds of times   
eyes closed. These I painted blind.   
Some things never leave a person:
scent of the hair of one you love,   
the texture of persimmons,
in your palm, the ripe weight.”
 

The end of Persimmons, by LI-YOUNG LEE. You can read the rest of the poem here:

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171753

{Photo credit to me.}

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