Garden of Poetry

Ballad of the Persimmon Tree

When spirits of autumn through the leaves moan,
Hear the persimmon tree sadly intone
Mournful melodies of days long ago,
When he stingy cuss stayed at his window,
Vigilant from early dawn till late eve,
Watching the fruits form like gold in his pash,
Accounting with hash marks upon the sash.
Lo, how the weeping branches sorely grieve
The memories they are fated to relate;
Of the old man searching for any flaw,
Wickedly beating his daughter-in-law,
Cursing her to the dogs as an ingrate,
For the theft of a single bite of gold.
On lonely nights the tree sings to the wind,
Of thieves, long gone to their graves, who sinned
In a ballad that each season is told.

~ Daniel F Mitchell