the evening still bloomed with laughter,
good food and singing,
becoming ongoingly sweeter.
Who could blame me for wanting it
to last forever—or if not forever,
at least for a few moments longer,
and if not for a few moments longer,
well perhaps I could just save a few
seeds of the pleasure, keep them
intact like the small red jewels that hide
inside a pomegranate, something
compact I might keep by my bedside
or slip into my backpack to pull out
when I need to remember how easily
joy can grow, joy—possible as a
thick-skinned fruit that holds translucent
ruby-like goodness inside—joy that ripens,
even as everything falls apart.