The Pomegranate

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