Pomegranate
The bounty of grandmother in a single thread.
Amen
Succumbed to the pathways of red diamonds,
buried deep in protective darkness
to savour its illuminating light.
Rummaged arils up in the air,
the awakening from every dream.
I have lit candles at my funerals
till death was enlightened once again by its light.
The dream I dreamed has come to life.
Now I sit in the wooden stall
with threads with no ends,
wet from them tears,
red from them blood. Yet they echo,
memories of strength.
Weaver, now I AM.
February, 2025
