Sonnet #58

The greatest mystery of pomegranates

When is the fruit come ripe for picking?

For months they hang like planets

Red and crowned and thickening, thickening

Blooms remembered, they were fairy dresses

Red for the queen, yellow for the sun

After the party, the ripeness of caresses

The swelling weight pulls branches down

Is she done? Is she ever going to be done?

Can I be so bold as to pluck a sweet fruit?

Wait until autumn, she says, my fruit will come

When my leaves give up their last refute

I know, once cracked, she's kin to fairy toads

The way the eggs all bunch, and burst at goad