Thursday, November 28, 2013

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.

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