there is no time to be anything
other than yourself

gently now, as bees do

never rush that which takes root slowly

and never cease to make room
for your own astonishment

my friend, 

if you see me in heaven,
tell the gardener

i lived sumptuously
as pomegranates do

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This is a revision of a poem I wrote several years ago, titled “Pomegranate Song”. I recently revisited that poem and realized the only part of it I really wanted to keep was the last four lines. It’s likely I will keep revising it, but for now, I’m OK with this version.