Did you see the pomegranate, split wide from falling or by birds or some wild thing,
under the drooping branch of wet poppy leaves?
Even after days of rain it still looked dry and dusty, the skin cracked like old leather.
I feel like that some days, split, spilled, cracked open.
The bright seeds inside still held a juicy promise for a brown squirrel with a watchful eye
and he, or she, took time to taste those tiny glowing morsels
and then in a flash disappeared
the fruit empty, picked clean.