Pomegranates

Do you remember all those old stories?

How they used to feel on your skin?

Your tongue?

Do you remember how they used to taste like pomegranates?

Do you know where pomegranates come from?

I know where pomegranates came from.

Persephone made them.

She walked through an orchard, nameless and ageless.

She fell hard and fast, and let her body feel the dirt.

The trees around her sang in the wind, they knew.

They knew who she was.

A farmer? A gardener? A daughter of the harvest?

No.

A fellow lost soul.

She longs to love someone.

To feel the ache of yearning for one who completes her.

She cries and she cries and she cries.

And...

Someone hears her.

He too walks slowly and sadly.

A hearse follows him, driven by no one.

He comes to the orchard to listen to the trees.

And to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

Had they not met.

Had they not seen each other.

Had their eyes not locked and hovered within each other.

Had they not fallen deeply and irreparably in love in that one moment.

Persephone would not have cried everytime she had to leave every Spring.

Hades would not dread the end of each winter like it was the end of his life.

Every time Persephone returns to him they embrace each other with such a fierce love.

They cry tears of joy, and from where their tears break the ground,

A tree sprouts in their orchard.

And pomegranates grow from its branches.