Gwendolyn Ann Hill: This Wood is a True Ebony, But it Needs a Century to Grow

Split, by the bottomland
creek in mid-October, a persimmon
lay on a bed of netted leaves,
waxy skin hiding the dazzle 

jack o’ lantern fruit. I extract
an ant invader, lick my lips.
A little rot sweetens it for sucking, 

like jelly Grandma boiled all summer—
the sun with sugar and pectin, a drop
or two of rosewater. Fallen 

from a thicket with bark deeply
rifted and cracked; charred campfire
logs. Blow on them. When the lights
go out, these trees glow from within.