fruit of pomona
yielding to reach and touch ,
never to be split between friends and lovers
that homer once wrote of them,
slight tug separation from tree
a tree that would outlive the fingers
among the branches,
each gathered in wicker basket
green and red flesh perfumed
one of softer flesh skin slipped off
pulled open juice spilled nested in pulp
not seed but foetal form,
an emerging conterpart who would grow
in truth,
licking away textured pale pulp revealing all
form grew and writhed,
this was nothing that pliny had written of or the
romans seen yet she knew,
as a woman in her warm spelt bosom,
the coming thunder was starting with overlaid clouds
to raise it’s crescendo,
female foetus of of rockland maine
with mind akin would grow so well,
her fingers had known degas face,
eyes seen the waves of suppression ,
in this basket another voice grew
oil impressionism
captured scene milhaud tones
creation and completion
the veritable truth,
that fruit of pomona spoke so well
no more a planet of empty milk and bread
in the spirit of the gods
many would red lip sacrifice
banner to trumpet call
it was settled now
velvetmedia 