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.

Pomegranate

I read stories of all the food that makes Thanksgiving for people.  The food is rich and varied.  The only thing it all has in common is it is special.

Tomorrow

As families blend and morph

Into new versions

Of themselves,

More dishes will line the tables

At Thanksgiving.

A few years ago

I introduced pomegranate seeds

To a new crowd

Of unrelated people.

Since we were not in charge

Of the salad,

We served them as a garnish

For mashed sweet potatoes.

Years ago

My beloved*s introduction

To pomegranate seeds

Came

When he met my family

For the first time.

In his struggle to figure out

How to eat it a seed

My brother noted

He had dropped one

On his sweater.

This is now part

Of Thanksgiving

Pomegranate stories.

Other families share stories

Of cranberry salads.

Our stories often feature

Pomegranate seeds.

Exact same red

I look forward to silent meeting this morning.  It has been years since I have attended such a meeting. This is a morning for unprescribed words, and perhaps, contemplating things that are not usually contemplated on a Sunday morning.

The backsplash

Is the exact same red

As the pomegranate seeds

I use as a garnish

On my breakfast cereal

This morning.

Now I will go to silent meeting,

Contemplate the meaning

Of this

And oh so much more.

So much more.

Pomegranate seeds

This year we are eating out for Thanksgiving.  We are going to a buffet which is donating part of the proceeds to the Chicago Food Depository.  When my daughter and I were in the grocery store yesterday, we noted the pomegranates.  We also saw, for the first time ever, on the top shelf of the prepared fruit section, a plastic container of pomegranate seeds.  I wonder what a restaurant would do if we sneaked it in under our coats?

This year we have no kitchen

For Thanksgiving.

Pomegranate

Is out of the question.

Of course,

For most people,

Pomegranates do not figure into

The Thanksgiving equation.

In my family

Pomegranate seeds

Always spell out

Thanksgiving

In the green salad,

Sections of pink grapefruit and sliced cucumber

To hold them in place,

So they do*t all slide

To the bottom of the salad bowl,

No longer a garnish,

But instead a part of

The remains of the day.