Winter, Early

I never got,
before...

that Demeter would be so...

angry.

Oh, I sensed the sorrow--
pain-- longing.
Fire burning from each hand as you search search
search.
The sometimes sweet sometimes tart taste of pomegranates on the tip
of your tongue.

The things they took away from her.

But now I know.
Oh, how I know in this too tired heart.

Sitting,
watching all the green
and flowers and things that smell like youth
shrivel in the frost.

And being

sort of

glad.