She's pregnant, hugely pregnant.
Midwinter's Eve gathers around her: firelight and song, laughter, preparations for ritual and feast.
No one is surprised when her labor begins. After all, it's what we're here for.
We revolve around her. She sinks into her birthing-crouch.
Her cry of triumph halts our dance.
She opens. From between her legs, a freshet, a torrent of abundance.
Apples, oranges, almonds, walnuts, filberts—and one lone pomegranate—pour forth and cover the floor.
