in the pomegranate tree
these cold hard nights
their covers the leaves
but the leaves are leaving
and more every day
that’s the pomegranate’s way
the naked widow of another summer’s
false bravado and sweet wit
how old she’s grown gnarled
with a few bruised dugs left
hanging shamelessly
leaving me to sweep
the leaves and clean the shit
staining the old red bricks
but where will they sleep tonight
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