Pomegranate Snowfall

Outside the windows in the dark, snow is falling, steady and fast.  It piles on the lawns, cars and streets, falls through the lamplight.  Inside, we finally open the pomegranate  we bought well before Thanksgiving.  The blood red jewels shine in the incandescent light, garnets and rubies arranged is a perfect pattern.  It tastes so good.  In spite of being well aged, it is sweet, tart and delicious. I think of my grandmother Nicolina, my father's mother, who lived in a stable as a young woman and rode horses along the rocky coast of Italy collecting pomegranates.  It was she who taught me to eat them.  I think of course of Persephone down in the underworld by the firelight with Hades and Demeter, missing her above.  I think of my poet friend Linda who writes so deliciously of Persephone.  And I smile at Biker Buddy across the table from me. We ask each other why we haven't eaten this fabulous fruit before now.  Because, we decide, it takes leisure to open and eat a pomegranate, and leisure seems to be in short supply, especially leisure together.  But tonight, we pried open a little hole in our frenzy big enough to enjoy a pomegranate together.  Then rushed off again on our various tasks.  Biker Buddy is writing checks, Piano Boy playing the piano and I was carving on the polar bear block again.  Later, Biker Buddy will read aloud to Piano Boy and me, my favorite part of the day.  We'll be cuddled together on the love seat in the study.  And the snow?  It's still falling.