November 24: Under the Pomegranate Tree

 "then she turned herself into a seagull

and he became like

a snare for her feet."

And under the pomegranate tree, 

grandmother's voice became small

and the sun on the white houses

seemed harsh but

the sky, dark, like wine pressed

long before.

She changed the subject.

"Medusa was fortunate, Athena did love her.

She heard her little prayer

but could not stop her noble brother,

and gave her the face

to make men leave her alone."

We knew men were not heroes

and neither were gods when she said it

and listened as if turned

to stone, and she said at length as the 

shadow of the pomegranate 

spread, "We don't 

have that gift," she said, "And you

will never be a bird. Never 

a fleet-footed Atalanta,

dodger of men, even if I warned you

of the golden apples in your path. 

I can't give you anything 

to make you free of the 

grasp of man or God, 

but one alone:

to make yourself into a tree,

and cast your roots so deep into the earth

that you drop your regards to

Persephone and cast

your branches so high

maybe they will see you from Olympus.

But be so still no one hears anything,

not even the wind in your hair

like the leaves, even the leaves of grass

that tell the tale of the asses' ears

of Midas. I have 

even been a tree, fallen but not dead."

Fallen but not dead. and still

leaves shooting, still roots casting

deep into the soil of us.

I believe we learned.