(This poem appeared in the now-defunct journal Every Day Poets on February 6, 2013.)

Reaching up,pomological_watercolor_pom00007500
pulling down,
that ordinary,
unsurprising
magic
leaves me,
like a long ago
Sunday afternoon.
Pomegranates fall
from the mountain.

That maiden
(we know her,
don’t we?)
sings of her crowns
and thrones, but we,
the peasants, can
see past her shimmery,
showy pretense.

Her unremarkable magic
swirls on like steam
out the kitchen window,
wafting with the mist
of the moor.

© Timothy Dailey-Valdés, 2013-2016
Image: Elsie E. Lower, Punica granatum, 1909