The dark half of the year begins.
Demeter is most distracted. Persephone must be found by us, lest our cycle halt, so we hold out payment to her spirit-children. Here is my sweet fruit, take and eat.
In spring, Time, per Sacred Law, you may have my body along with the corn king’s and spring queen’s. Tonight, it is merely a carnival of the cycle of life and death, the skull is a lit lamp, and we open the thin shade of our skin over this burning life.
The world turns its other face and its legion merry host don new garb to show they are someone else, somewhere else, for this vigil night. They would have been anyone else and nothing else, and for one tentative evening they show it, panting.
Every thanksgiving they fall, all the passion colors of life. And the rain laves them, turning dust to brine, ice to memory.
Ritual disintegration, disrobing of hope, of life, the color wheel. And all that is black is wet, turning back to Persephone turning to her dark lord.
These are the passion colors of the north, fit winter brides to Wordsworth’s pale gold sun and flaxen spring.
Those my dark hot passions and charred summer. I am out of my sun.
The bitter pills she had swallowed flowed through her body and took the place of her cells. They showed now, bulging under the skin, prickly evidence, fruits in labor, grotesque and unfortunate. How did she think that she could salvage something of herself that was not her life?Today, bitterness flows from the side that got pierced most recently, and the other flow of love goes unseen. The birds that fly out of her mouth are tainted with the pall they see in her. They are dead because those who see them cannot see their life or their cause. And it is not in her power to make them see otherwise. All her love is for the inhuman now, the human having long disappeared to the world, Persephone to Demeter. She waits only for the transformation.