“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don't know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring–it was peace.” ― Milan Kundera
A spindly creature occupies the yard,
filled with notations of red, perched
as pompous breasted birds wanting to fly,
she cannot let them for it is not time,
this pregnant apparition clings to them,
her holy crown of forest green shimmering,
soon she will move giving elemental birth,
such as has been done for as long as memory,
youth will not know her season long courage,
nor appreciate this fruitful fulfillment,
once there is release from her womb,
there will come a time of rest for her,
waiting for the returning honey maker,
there to impregnate her blossoms of love,
giving her a reason to live and produce again.
The season has turned, ripening fruit in the trees.
That old persimmon in the far corner of the field
is now orange with pregnancy. The Waxwings
have found it, attacking the succulent gift. Loud
cries scream through the air, seeds and ripe flesh
rain down, as the aftermath of a mad bomber’s blasphemy.
My apology to those of you who view the pomegranate with religious significance, to me it is a lime in sheep skin. So here is a brief, albeit translucent, historical homily to this distasteful little Middle Eastern shrub.
There are over 700 varieties of pomegranate. The one I prefer is Cosmoplitan Martini.
There is loathing or liking
toward the humble pomegranate,
plum of the east,
globe from the desert sands.
Its refreshing juices
a tart invasion of the mouth,
muhamara slathered on pita,
aradana for the bowl of rice.
Chew and suck upon the arils
nested in the pulp creation,
adorning the crown and capital,
of Jachin and Boaz.
The righteousness Mitzvot fruit
carried in the robe of the Ephod,
rider on the rimmonim,
here the forbidden of the Garden.
The fatal fruit of Persephone
captive to Hades bidding,
you Sah the soul of Osiris,
the calyx of mighty Hera.
Let it be you in my kollyva
nurturing, succulent, life giving,
broken and bursting,
the symbol of the resurrection.
Growing in the gardens of Paradise
your blossoms bejewel the air,
the image of prosperity and fertility,
Loved by Bhoomidevi and Bijapuraphalasakta.
For thousands of years worshiped
as a treasure of beginnings and endings,
a leather skinned malum punicum,
behold, you are but a humble pomegranate.
Pick me, I cling free,
Clasp me in your hand,
A ripe peach sweet fleshed,
Taste my blushed skin,
Bite into me as juices flow,
Lick the tang of my nectar,
Rejoice, renew, close your eyes,
Vision the nourishment you hold,
At my core is a bitter seed,
Do not cast it aside, plant it,
For tomorrow it will grow,
Becoming fruit laden branches.