POET, WRITER, TEACHER

 

for Linda

Persephone wanted to return.
It seemed a simple thing:
take the pomegranate seed, swallow it
leave the underworld if only for a season.
So hungry was she, not just for sunlight,
but for her meadow where jonquil

sprayed the hillside. Hers is a story
for the young. Toes and fingers never numb –
they need no coats, no sweaters
in the evening’s chill. Such freedom.

But we who are older live in layers –
cotton, wool, silk against skin.
See how the silhouette of bare oak
stems a December sky, brittle frame
yielding fully like every dying thing.

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