A poem

Pomegranate

Thistle-haired and hungry
as your gnarled hand clasps
clenches, chokes the change.

Clouds tear in staccato time-lapse,
well up and whip down,
second, season, century, shame.
Short moments.
Cobwebs.

After the bursting of your eyes,
sweet pomegranates.

Prying into the despair
of wounds healing,
time frozen
like a face in ice.

Thistle-haired
we part with the purple.
Heather. Rose-

mary.
The bread.
The word.
And the wine.