Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Monday, August 29, 2016

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

Post a Comment