The silence of a quiet nest surrounds me
As I sit at the sink
Chewing on my probiotic pomegranate seeds
Blood red and juicy,
Severing with my tongue seed from seed
Through and around bridge cavities,
Bunching groups of tasteless seeds together
To the left side of my mouth.
Yes, it's an art!
I release with one big suck and swallow
The juice blocked away on the right,
Then with one strong swoosh
Eject bundled lumps of pits into the trash.
I feel-sheer mind over matter-
The juice purify my under scalp
And think how beneficial it must be
To have juicy red blood sanitize my brain.
Is my retreat to sensory eating
Symptomatic of our communication barrier?
Or an indication that years have rolled by us
Leaving age, and self, and peculiar quirks
That cause me to believe
The dream of growing old together and loving it
Is just for us and many more a myth, a mirage, a dream?
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This Poems Story
After retiring from teaching, I found lots of time on hand to write. I reminisce about a long life lived over two continents-the warm South and the cold North America. I am crazy about fruits and write about them now and then. Next to the Julie mango, pomegranates are my most favorite. Its juice reminds me of life-giving blood. I marvel at the mystery of the mind behind their creation-multiple pockets sealed in their separate wombs, making up one whole dainty. Pomegranates provide me much comfort as I enjoy my long hours of retirement.