you are buried deep underground
like winter’s favorite
spring’s daughter
in her tomb of
bone and gold.
you are the sudden
eruption of fruit on vine,
and fences lined with
a crust of
you wraith like honeysuckle
and rage in thorns.

you are both
the rising,
and the metamorphosis:
the  lasting arrival.
you are the dark queen
in her final hours
returned to Earth
to wage a

you are Persephone’s
final futile hours
screaming at the flowers,
soaking everything in

“the crusade”

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