The winter and river spirits are making love, these days.
I walk to them with pomegranates wrapped in cheese cloth;
I forgot my hat, and I should have worn gloves
but I needed to feel those mountains against
the ridges of my palms. I needed to feel the cycles of things.
Water flows under too many inches of ice.
A bruised and delicate being is born
from the copulation of cold and wet,
writhing. Beautiful, and harsh.
I crack the first few layers of cool
hard flesh with my wand
(a gift from the desert juniper spirits),
and deposit the fruit.
I offer my thanks, and implore a blessing or two.
I am only human.