Blogs

And I thought of Persephone, Queen of the Underworld,
six months beneath the snows, six in the sun,
her mother Demeter spreading wild fecundity in summer heat.

Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds,
the blood on her hands
condemning her to winter darkness.

I know better now.
I know better, because beneath the snow
our compost is steaming.

There’s churning life burning up those dead leaves,
a bacchanalia turning moldy rinds to soil.

There’s Persephone’s sticky heat
sweet with pomegranate juice,
her belly holding hot promise of spring.

She’s not dead. She’s got work to do.

— Elissa Malcohn