Pomegranate tree of the ego
Hang a few remaining fruit
So past lives accumulate
And the leftovers fallen
Generate a kind of compost
Food for thoughts flown off
And a few last leaves
Fingered by a freeze
Its skin is crusty and barnacled
Its joints are ugly knots
I think it would be fragrant in a fire
But that’s just winter talking
Come May it fills with flowers
Makes another brave ascent
No comments:
Post a Comment