There are two persimmon trees in my yard, a Fuyu, that makes the little pumpkin-looking fruits that can be eaten when firm, and a Hachiya, which is more acorn shaped and must be slippery-soft to neutralize the astringent quality. The firm persimmons are usually abundant and delicious every year. The ones that are supposed to be like honey never quite ripen and, at their best, resemble orange mashed potatoes. We do not eat them.
|Naked by noon|
The point here is that when persimmon trees let go of their leaves, they let go. A good frost somehow goes in to the very spot that holds each leaf to its twig and unknits the connection. The leaves fall. It's almost like a race, each leaf not wanting to be still seen still hanging around by lunch time. Leaves in the morning, naked by noon, purest of magic, and frost is the master magician.
|The persimmon's dress, fallen around her ankles.|
|The great unknitting magician|
The first of the Things I get to do today is capture the magician. I found him in the chicken's water!