Crisp gusts of sharp winds whip my hair in circles.
Flushed faces and noses, rosy with cold.
As I walk home, my eyes linger on a wooden crate of pomegranates:
a guarded gate to the shop behind them.
I carefully pick two.
Deep crimson-tinted skin,
unscratched and pure of imperfections.
Cold hands exchange rusted drachmae for these cherry-tinted treasures.
I gently place them in my bag, as if they were made of porcelain,
and I continue to escape the cold.
Upon arriving home, I sit down and reach for the pomegranates.
The sharp knife slices cleanly through the tough skin as if it were butter.
Two sides pulled apart,
drops of blood spill out onto my hands and down my arms.
The cherry-tinted skin reveals its yellow underbelly
as the bloody fruit gets pulled apart to expose its treasure.
Shimmering, crimson rubies all stuck together:
a conglomerate of wine-colored sweetness.
To my pleasure, the jewels release with ease.
Persephone's downfall has become my nectarous treasure.
Garnet-stained fingers bring a handful of precious stones to my lips.
The fruit bursting in my mouth.
I lick my lips, searching for more sweetness remaining from the crimson rubies.
My lips are now stained along with my fingertips.
Permanent color, equal to the permanent urge for more:
Neither recede, even after soap and water douse my garnet-stained hands.
Nothing can compare to this heavenly fruit.
Godly Ambrosia sent down from the clouds .
To bless our lips, our hands, and anything they touch.