Poem with Dream and Unpicked Persimmons

How do I explain? After years of feeling 
so tightly bound to others, one day 

some of the sharpness dissipates. Not
dissolves completely: just gradually quiets. 

Which still makes me sad—it's as if what I know 
I've carried so close and for so long as my duty 

has given up on me. My friend says, perhaps you 
haven't cried enough; watch sad movies and 

let yourself go. I taste metallic earth in my throat 
at night, and dream of walking through rooms 

whose  windows all open to the sea. The neighbor's 
yard is studded with the gold of persimmons. Each 

branch bows from their weight at various stages: 
ripe, unripe, swollen with impossible desire.