Seven days since the storm
snowed itself out and moved east, and still
the fat clots of white lodge themselves
in the twig forks. How cold holds!
This snow fruit crotched in place
by the black dogwood, snared by
a relentless frost that won’t
let go, won’t give in, even to the sun.
I fixed it in my camera’s eye.

On my dining table, in a wood
bowl, wait the five dried pomegranates
I saved for a friend. Decay has
forgotten them, their red skin
dried to tough brown leather,
the little teeth of sepals crimped
in a crown of sharp kisses that guards
the secret seeds, dark purses
for a blood that will never be spilled.