pomegranate

Pomegranate.

One of the less appreciated fruits in my opinion.

Essential to a Christmas Eve fruit salad a la Blackburn.

Rosey balls of garnet hanging on with their fingertips to tiny branches. Growing heavier, heavier, rounder, juicier, until they POP and spill their jeweled insides to the grateful birds below.

Picking them makes me dusty, itchy, and nostalgic for a life where goodness is harvested from the earth to the table.

Tiny fingers holding half a pomegranate and tiny mouths wet with red juices. Sweet.

I stood under my tree and gazed at a naturally beautiful view. The fruit, bursting open with over-ripeness, green vines intertwining, branches heavily laden. Rubied seeds glistening in the sun.

I looked up and quoted A Room with A View aloud:

"My father says the only perfect view is of the sky over our heads."

"I expect your father has been reading Dante."

I smiled, and wished to stand in my tree shouting, "Love! Beauty! Truuuth!"