for ceres

The pomegranate seeds are rotting in Tupperware
where my roommate left them last.
Now my mother is coming through the door,
remarking on the smell,
as she removes her jacket,
shaking the rain off like a duck.
She has flown here to do my laundry,
to go to dinner, to fold the socks,
mending the heart as mothers do.
But she can make Spring come
no faster.