one can pinpoint precisely
the fruit
when it’s about to fall,
ready,
and she wasn’t
he saw her, out of reach
a pomegranate, coloured in light
and he reeled in the branch
snapping off leaves and twigs
to reach her
to teach her about ripening
and to her,
he is a sun
but not the kind to ripen fruit
he put her in his fire pit
closed the lid
smothered her in embers
to swiften up the sweetness
and, still not sweet enough,
she tasted burnt, he said
bitter, pressed
a fruit already handled
no,
not the way to ripen fruit
had he had the patience
she would have fallen
in her own time,
ready, ripe
into his hands spread in love
for one cannot speed up seasons
and from the ash
she saved one ember-jewelled seed
that she’ll unfurl,
her own pomegranate tree
at bird-height, roots
curled into the grey walls
of some fort or other
in some unseasonable land
she’ll let the bees visit one day
but till then her boughs stay barren
ring the years around
her knots and gnarls
a slow unfurling of leaves
until she decides to bloom
a verdant slash against stone
with the promise of fruit
to ripen and fall with that soft thud
when she is sweet
when she is ready
poems, prose and pathways
Writer | Artist
Fatos e Curiosidades sobre a natureza e tecnologia
Meditations on Art and Life
"per l' allegria il pianeta nostro è poco attrezzato. Bisogna strappare la gioia ai giorni futuri "
a resource for moving poetry
Linking collage work to the meaning of personal and universal symbols.
This is my adventurous story about buying, designing, and renovating homes in ITALY