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PERSEPHONE'S SEASON
In my hand, this pomegranate - irregular
globe - splitting its rough husk to spill out seeds
sweet as summer, the year yet pleasing
to the tongue but almost too full; woods cluttered
with birdsong and groping, climbing greenery.
And yet, a sense of warp in the air, layer on layer
of sky pressing down like calendar. Firewood
stacked here and there waiting to be hauled
to winter. This one pomegranate, full and over-
full with red translucence; not a perfect globe,
but as if an anxious hand grasped it too tight
and left the impress of fist on skin. This
mythic fruit tart-sweet as summer, but
declining fast as Persephone's footsteps
hurrying to find the nether corridors
in time, to become again
the dark god's bride.
"MYSTERY OF THE FLOATING COFFIN"
headline in the SUN
In that tidal middle-wash between upland granite
and sea, where saltwater meets fresh, a line
forever changing, mixing, layering
in thermoclines of scent and hazy summer
we found it floating off from shore
battered and beveled - did it
tumble down mountain cataracts
or rise moon-drawn with the flood?
It slipped from your grappling-
hook with the empty
sound of a bottle
that once held a message.
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