You rode forth from a crack in the earth
And drew me into your embrace
Of course, the parallel is imperfect
As the chariot was my own
And I was so much more than willing

You took me to your home
While wiles and strange liquors plied me
And my skittish fear faded
(without disappearing)
And left me yours

You brought me to your land
(For certain values)
And placed me in my chambers
And there you fed me pomegranate
Three. Six. Twelve.
I ate so many more seeds than there are months
And by rules as old as time I must remain

But luckily

My mother likes you

So the world

Need not

Be fallow

All year long