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My Persephone
The palm has curled across the steps, and ground
its green into slate and future snow. It cowers
as summer does beneath a billowing cloud.
As ice arrives and leaves descend, I dig
my wrists into rock, caress the chafe and freeze.
I sharpen my nails against the song that's found
in winter's bones, whose echo hums in stone,
whose tone threads through falling palms,
whose form endures the moan of midnight's birth.
A weakening will pulls my voice beneath
the ivory ice to live within the breath of seeds,
to nestle in the origin of new bones, new green.
My tears will sing the birth of fear's clear river.
My waiting song will rattle these once hollow bones.
Rebecca Pfordresher