and yet the seasonal has a way of addressing absence & its ensuing lament. Pomegranates. The word itself is a poem. Even without the thrill of its 613 seeds, the pomegranate is a joy to behold. Fecund and juicy. Fall is spilling. These beauties picked by Bev from her brother's tree. Wow!
Fondly no spice adheres
ReplyDeletegrimy was along the city center
find us nothing too grand
tanker tub and justice for hamburger bun
I still love the bright day after rain