A broken heart is a pomegranate squashed underfoot, ruin by people who did not take care enough to look where they were walking. At first the juice spurts out sickly, thickly like red blood, oozing onto the pavement. The torn flesh becomes exposed, open and raw, with its seeds, its little ovaries of new life just tumbling out. But after a while, as the sun gets hotter and the time passes, it loses the beauty of freshly inflicted pain, and it begins to rot away; the skin becomes dull and translucent, the juice dries up and all that is left is the sickly sweet smell of decay.
There will be no spring this year, Demeter. Your daughter will continue to live underground, until you come down to see her. It is your choice to whether this meeting will be in the flesh, or under more permanent circumstances, for even the lives of Gods can be spoiled by love like pieces of fruit.
Photo by oprisco