The leaves are strewn about the foot of the tree and, if the sun is just right, the persimmon looks as if it was hung with Chinese lanterns.

The tree bears fruit that is not edible until after the first frost.  The orange globes hang from bare branches and color a gloomy autumn day with their ethereal orange.  What a gift.

This time of year always finds me depressed and hopeless that the verdant mountains and abundant flowers will return.  We are all gray and black and brown.  The trees are naked and stark.  One persimmon here — up on my hill — would be a blessing.

To be like the persimmon – to produce vivid color in a black and white world.  To provide fruit when all else is spent and the earth waits for the snow cover.  To be a beautiful beacon of Mother Earth’s miracles.

I want to be a persimmon.