you bring to them the warmth of spring,
the sweetest green grasses,
the ripest red fruit,
the dawn of another age.
daughter of the harvest,
you lie in wait through your husband’s
frozen, dead seasons
waiting to come home.
mother of the flowers,
sometimes the waiting isn’t so bad,
warming your husband’s home
for longer and longer still.
he needs it, the warmth,
and you to so gladly give it,
for damn the world and damn them all,
you have love here under the earth.
whispers turn to prayers turn to begging,
fearful, freezing things
from those who worship at your altar—
but, still, from him, too, your high priest.
you leave him, his fingers grasping after you,
to populate the earth for them,
warmth and vegetation and saltwater,
and forget why you wanted this at all.