Alone next to the sidewalk,
the gooseberry bush
with iridescent, teardrop fruit,
protected by thorns,
doesn’t need a partner.
The Fuyu persimmon in our garden
flaunts orange globes on its bare limbs,
brilliant in October. If you cut off
the tomato-like top, scoop out
its soft flesh, and plop
the sweet goodness into your mouth,
you find not a single seed.
My Sunset Western Garden Book
labels this amazing fact
“self-fruiting,”
a concept I wish I’d known
when I was seventeen
and borrowed a black dress
with plunging neckline and short skirt
for the dance.
