I certainly do not love November,
the days shrinking as if from Alice in Wonderland,
me left wondering, "where has the sun gone?"

But the joy and yes, the challenge, even, of eating a pomegranate brightens my day in a way that nothing else can.

The pomegranate. The pomegranate sits poised as if preparing for a duel,
with me. I, though, knowing already who is the victor
approach confidently.

I pry, pick, and pluck, praying for a handful of the
juicy red seeds, each bursting with its own sharp, ringing flavor

like the way certain notes ring out as I press the keys,
my fingers frantically trying to flow fluidly.

And so certainly it is not easy,
not easy, no,
but rather, arduous, strenuous, laborious,
boring through the tough white flesh,

of the pomegranate.