My spirit heavy as I waited
To visit an old mate below the pomegranate tree.
Ready I had come to grieve
And fertilize the roots and leaves
To feed the fruit that grew there and then gave itself for free.
To hungry folk like me.
But on that cold portentous night
There waited there a muddy fright-
A ghoul in moonlight down below the pomegranate tree.
He licked the soil and scraped the roots
Sifted leaves inside a boot,
The match for which was on the ground crushed beneath his knee
The ghoul, I saw, saw me.
Nervous, I walked to the clearing
Only then as I was nearing
The ghoul cast up a yellow eye below the pomegranate tree
And began to keen and, tearing
simple rags he was wearing,
Gurgled "I can't find it, help me, you must help me, see!
Then I'll let you free!"
I asked him what it was he's seeking,
He looked as if he'd caught me sneaking
And whispered his answer to the flowers on the pomegranate tree.
"A bird I plucked but didn't kill-
His remains are somewhere still
He fell off of a window sill and I suspect his meat may be
Here and I plan to see."
I asked him what it was to him
To have a body past the brim
Under the flowery limb of this old pomegranate tree
He answered "I was known to poke,
Prod, burn, persecute and joke
The little bird that sang so sweetly, and to cage his she.
What will they say of me?
"If I don't find and then preserve
The sweet and harmless little bird
Men and ghouls may curse my name around the pomegranate tree.
If I can't even claim his ashes,
Even demons fear the lashes
When strangers call my evil rashness and my darkness frivolee."
I admit, I do agree.
-Willie Eighter, Santa Clarita
TRIFLE, n. Motive enough.
*Note: I confess I'm doing yet another post about my analog world. Bear with me and I'll work through it.