Dormant Bulb to Persephone
I feel the firm dark
tattooing my nakedness
into blind earth. I sing my secret
song to your husband
as I am strummed by passing
earthworms, I sing
a tune praising the cold
for keeping me from peeking
out into killing frost –
a mother’s fierce bitterness
made flesh. If I love Death
enough for you, if I praise
my cousin pomegranate
for providing you the seed
of seasons, if I cherish
your absence in the dark
hymns of the unborn,
if I can convince you I don’t
need you to break me free of
unrelenting winter to see heaven,
perhaps you’ll come home.
_______________
Colleen S. Harris