my mother is stacking

my mother is stacking
dried persimmons neatly
into a Ziplock bag for the
season that i will be
away. as she works, she
expertly binds the nature
of the persimmon to
my memory – storage,
dosage, usage – with grace,
she braids into my
heartstrings the lore
of generations of mothers
sending forth their wisdom
ahead of a fixed departure


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