I went in search of paw paws
down a trail in a park
where there was said to be a grove.
I found the trees, but it was too late
in the season. There was no fruit.
So, I sat on some rocks next to the river
and read from a book of Chinese poetry,
the sound of water over granite ledges,
competing with traffic on the interstate
only a half-a-mile away. The afternoon sun
shone through the yellow leaves
of beeches and sycamores.
And I thought of nothing,
but the cool autumn air,
and the sweet taste of paw paws.