As my branches linger in the doorway,
I feel the weight of lives getting pulled out of suitcases, deseeded,
halfheartedly sown about the room,

the nearly worn-out attempt to rearrange the contents in yet another new space.

At this age, the likelihood of Too Late to Un-See and superb marksmanship in the dulling practice of Staying Up Later Than Sanity is almost certain.

I recognize the dying violet shade brushed slight under her eyes, the soft crease between her brows.
Those limbs like oak bones coal-black against the March twilight sky.

But this is the season of sun-spilled green grass and crisp watermelon in the shade.
Time for roots to drink in the warmth of June,
the sweet incense of apricots looking for the spark-eyed soul willing to reach for the highest branches.

And, as my mother always said:
Never rule out the chance for a fresh breeze.
So I smile anyway.
And she smiles anyway, as well —

I catch the scent of sandalwood. Now I know —
not all hope is lost.

2 thoughts on “Persephone

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