Basket of Pomegranates
It is a tragic experience to be able to see a Soul, so deeply, so clearly, yet be unable to breach the borrowed black mirror they hold up like a shield, which prevents reflection, when love pings the surface, too soft like an unsubstantial summer rain at the end of a long, dry spell, after the growing time has past.
An old woman cackled from somewhere, “He cares too much.” And I believe her, sacrificed a baby long ago, spade by spade, a silent little boy under hoary soil, and twigs, and cold fires.
I have pomegranates to spare, from who knows where, collected from a fence post one, and in an old abandoned boat in Scotland, and one offered up by a Mermaid, and another hit me on the head once in reverie beneath a fine sky at noon in the mountains gifted.
I’ll leave a basket on the porch and perhaps when the poison apple is spit, he will find them, the pomegranates, the gift long forgotten.
A snow white king stag sleeps under the burnt hawthorn branches, but I see a cinder there that does not belong to me, knowing fire is not my element, I burnt my hand to lift the antler to the table in Thanksgiving, and for that I am grateful.