That crystal pointed flakes of snow
could ever dull, defies the mind.
But it is so, if one can find
an avalanche.
It is a fact: wind plunging downward by the ton
shears the frozen stars within.
When silence falls, the broken snow
is hard as stone.
Have you walked a mountaintop,
whose height gave way to dazzling fall,
the crystals heaving, churning, grinding,
stopping breath?
To fill my heart, I walked
upon the curve of snow swept and left
at the lip of a rising hill. Then love fell
and entombed us.
Pomegranates
Pomegranates grow from salty dirt,
but they never taste of brine or grit.
Quarter one and press the cheek; splay
concave its inner flesh – again you’ll taste
among those polygons of pods, the seeds
containing rain-wine, soil’s bittersweet.
When you have lived in dry or salty places
have you conceived such deep, clear juices?
Be silent; drink. Let your lips be stained
with truth, your whitest shirt be ruined.
Earth is so complex! And you, sweet seed,
must only take in what your nature needs.
Mid Walsh is a poet, singer, athlete, husband, and grandfather living near the ocean. With an English BA from Yale University and an MBA, he has conducted careers as a carpenter, a hi-tech executive, and a yoga studio owner. His poetry renders his life experiences into the music of language. Mid's poetry is forthcoming in or has appeared in The Road Not Taken, Nixes Mate Review, Blue Unicorn, Silkworm, and Lily Poetry Review.