Is a pomegranate tree.
It stands there, day in and day out
As trees typically do.
The Designer saw it fit
For trees to not have legs
But remain in place and make do with
Whatever the season brings.
The rains of September have spilled into October
And the first bursts of green
are all around us.
For months, the view beyond my window
Was spare and straw-like,
A daily reminder that the desert is not too far from here.
Today I noticed the first blooms of the pomegranate.
In a few months the branches will bend and bow under
The weight of such heavy fruit.
But today, like a woman in early labor
It has pushed out some color:
A bit of green, with a tinge of red.
Almost as if to say
‘My children here! They are on the way.’
Unlike us, the tree cannot emigrate.
It cannot take initiative to seek
A better world for itself.
Until the last day, it will remain where it is
Be there fresh rains or harsh dry winds.
For a creature so not well-traveled,
Stuck in place with no access to the insights
Of its elders who have stories to share
About bearing fruit in season
And weathering the dryer times,
I wonder how it knows that now is the time to bloom?
Not last month when the rains first fell,
And yesterday may have been as good a day as any,
Yet today was the day of its blooming.
‘The answer’, the tree seems to say,
Is “He orders the bloom.’’
You care for the land and water it;
you enrich it abundantly.
You crown the year with your bounty,
and your carts overflow with abundance.
The grasslands of the wilderness overflow;
the hills are clothed with gladness