I don't quite remember
the taste of the pomegranate
which I stole from the tree,
but I hope it was at least
succulent and ripe, and perhaps
worthy of imagining the sight
of those juices, running down your lips
like a river, sustaining life and beauty.
I used to know what it meant
when you ripen and fall.
It had something to do
with the flow of the seasons,
which ebb and subside
like the stains on my cheeks,
barely perceptible
from the tops of the trees.
I continue to be astonished by these.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Katie! Thanks for reading.
ReplyDelete