Ripened most perfect, it snapped off the branch
As if it had been waiting for your hand,
Releasing the tree at last (the last fruit)
To drop its leaves and sleep. So there it sits,
Six months of branch to blossom to bee to
An odd, rounded five-sided red puzzle
Of a thing. The squirrel that got the second-
To-last sits on his haunches peeling and
Nibbling like a prince, all pink-stained cheek fur
And busy paws.
Eat the fruit with wildness,
Because the world has worked millenniums
To hand you this perfect thing, and you took
The last pomegranate because the tree
Offered it, finding at last a thing complete.