When I first heard the story, I was Persephone,
feet in the blossoms, oblivious,
on the edge of another world.
Once the pomegranate broke on my own doorstep
I found the summer, but too soon became Demeter,
searching for my child, calling into that underworld,
thinking of the third season, harvest or loss,
that might arrive before its time
and take away the world.