Pomegranate is a winter fruit

I always hated reading poetry which required a deep understanding of literary allusion.  Especially literary allusion which required knowledge of Greek and Latin and French and Italian.  Here it is Thanksgiving and I am thinking about Persephone, eating pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, and having to live there from three to six months.  She found her way into today's poem.  I think I explained her presence well enough. I did major in Greek as an undergraduate.  But still.  Happy Thanksgiving!

In northern Illinois

Pomegranate is a winter fruit,

Shipped in

From southern climates

On other continents.

It arrives in the stores

At Thanksgiving

With the first flakes of snow.

Every year it seems,

Like Persephone,

I descend to darker places

Only to rise in the light

Come spring.

Pomegranate is a winter fruit.

Of course it is.

Every year I eat at least six seeds

At Thanksgiving

Around a warm family table,

Remember the past months

Of growth and harvest,

Remember the people,

Remember the losses,

The things which are

No longer gathered in

But somehow still remain.

I am grateful

Oh so grateful

Eternally grateful.