A Longing

In the cool of the morning,
On a trip into town,
She handed me a pomegranate
From the blue bowl on her desk.

I drove way out back
To the old cottonwood tree —
The massive one, with branches broken,
Heavy with mistletoe.

I held the fruit in my hand;
It felt good like a baseball.

As I split it open,
My thoughts turned to you,
My dear…
My thoughts turned to you.