Persephone

A young maiden lay surrounded

by hyacinth, and wildflowers stretched

across the evergreen field.

Underneath the eternal blue sky

with Helios’ chariot riding high overhead.

A shadow slithered between

the roots and stems, swallowing

summer in the jaws of the dim Underworld,

devouring the maiden whole

as she fell further from the sun.

The light shrank out of reach

as she plummeted down past the soil,

past the bones of the fallen,

the heavy golden coins on their eyes,

and the roots that ran deep beneath the countryside.

She sat up, surrounded by rotten flowers,

clumps of dirt, and now dead grass.

She cried out within the dull and deep crater

for her mother, her protector and bringer of life.

Gone. Silent. Lost.

A figure stepped forward from the archway,

cloaked in darkness as if it were

an otherworldly uniform. His hand,

covered in rings of gold and precious rubies,

stretched toward her, calm within the ruin.

Tears rolled down her cheeks

as she recognized the one god

who remained absent from her home

in beautiful and bright Mount Olympus,

for he never left his shadowy domain.

The eldest brother of her father,

and the protector of souls. Now

Hades – Lord of the Underworld –

offered her a hand, eyes gentle

yet piercing, asking a silent question.

Marriage – binding and final as

death itself – a proposal and a promise.

A proposal to be his queen of the damned kings

and glorious soldiers. A promise to protect her

as he protects those under his watchful eye.

A contract between gods lasts as long

as they both reign, for there are always

new souls to preside over.

New punishments for those who

think themselves above mortal laws.

She looked upon his handsome and grim face,

patient and just, still awaiting her response.

She hesitantly took his hand, pulling herself upwards

and leaving behind crushed flowers

beneath her bare feet.

His somber face brightened slightly,

accepting her silent reply.

A request to learn more.

To explore the terms

of the proposed agreement.

He led her to his banquet hall, just beyond

the clod-filled pit behind her. The hall was

filled with roasted pheasant, charred hog, and crispy quail.

Ripened berries and fresh vegetables.

Ambrosia flowed in fountains and nectar filled up goblets.

This elegant and extravagant presentation

piled high and wide, filling with more

delicacies as her eyes widened.

For even in Olympus she had not

seen such a feast – such a wedding gift.

She walked the length of the table,

eyeing each gift individually and

assessing his abundant wealth

and horde of food, until she

found one to her liking.

From an overflowing golden bowl she plucked

six small pomegranate seeds and decidedly

popped them into her mouth. The juice of the seeds

burst from the casings and flowed down her throat,

as good as any engagement ring.

She had chosen her path.

A compromise. A partial death.

To live in the cold dark palace for half of the rest of her life,

and to live in the fields above for the remainder.

The bittersweet duality of seasons.

A flower does not always bloom year-round,

and Persephone was a perennial no more.

This young blossom was frozen in time as

the land of men froze in grief, for Demeter–

goddess of the harvest– would yield no crops.

No green foliage or colorful flora

as long as her absent daughter

remained in the grips of the shadows.

Not as long as the new bride was lost to

the king who stole her away.

Persephone’s gown was no longer light and airy

for she was no longer a bud. Instead it was heavy

and dark as the night that ruled her perpetual kingdom.

She had bloomed into a dark queen who would reign

with a fist as strong and just as her husband’s.

Yet she longed for the sunlight to cascade down her face

and kiss her eyelids as softly as her husband kissed her hand.

She longed for the warmth of a familiar abode

unlike the cavernous one she now inhabited and presided over.

To embrace her mother, her mentor, and be home in her arms.

At the end of her newfound cycle, wingèd Hermes

visited her with a message from the Lord Zeus:

Come home. Bring spring to the people and make the

flowers bloom from the frosty earth. Melt the snow that

her mother had cried into existence from pure agony and loss.

Home was a near-forgotten concept. Her home was covered

in shadows and souls, but she had once roamed free

in the fields of her mother. Long patches of wheat

springing forth from the fertile soil were her first playground.

Replaced by ice and storm in her omission from the world above.

Persephone held Hermes’ hand in her palm

and gifted him a flower, a hellebores dark as her crown

and soft as a sprout. A sign of gratitude that only she

could grow underneath the rocky ceiling

that sank with the weight of the steep mountains above.

Hermes led her upwards along a

long and unlit path, vast and hollow. Water droplets

dripped from stalagmites onto the floor beneath,

as if the world was weeping silently with pings of grief

bouncing off into the abyss beneath their precarious path.

Far ahead Persephone saw a figure

surrounded by sunlight standing in the

yawning mouth of the entrance to the Underworld,

which she had not left since she fell through

the crust and became an equal ruler.

Her newlywed home now shrinking

behind the trailing fabric of her dress,

catching a gust of cold and bitter wind in passing

as she flung herself into the arms of her mother.

Together. Joyous. Found.

As their tears pooled around them, the salt

melted the snow and sprouted flowers of all colors

in gigantic explosions blooming across the entire

formerly frozen land that was now covered

in an abundance neither had seen for quite some time.

The goddesses embraced as if they were

vines wrapping around a cottage, tightly holding

one another in the passing sunlight that rose ever higher.

Demeter looked upon her daughter’s face

and smiled for the first time in months.

Tears of joy and gratitude turned into rivers

flowing freely through the valley and plain,

cascading down her smiling face,

which left behind happy creases

and a myriad of motherly concerns.

The elder goddess was ready to bring her daughter home,

back up past the clouds and the birds that flocked there.

At last they were in the warm light that shone

brighter than it had in the past six months

of chilling winds and isolated hearts.

Reunited, they spoke to each other

and recounted their time apart,

knowing full well that this would end

quickly in a season, with the looming obligations

of the passage of souls and service to their people.

Persephone had accepted that she

was not on the known path, but that

her flowers would bloom in the light and the dark,

for she was the one providing divine life

to the nature she bore in abdomen and hand.

She looked down this new path laid before her,

covered in soft grass that whistled in the breeze,

an uncertain future for everyone minus the Fates,

and fresh melted snow that sank into the dirt,

nurturing a seedling as she now did.

In a blink she will return to her husband and duty,

but before she dons her heavy gown again,

she must bask in the sunlight and roll

among the wildflowers once more,

soaking in the nutrients to cultivate.

A nascent bud was forming in the soil

of her being – a being of both the Underworld

and Mount Olympus – like her goddess queen mother,

who cradled her belly, partially illuminated

by her cousin’s chariot, following his usual trajectory.

She remembered that day, all those months ago,

fated to happen before her glorious birth occurred –

where she fell into this new cyclical life of death and renewal.

The wheat would wither and the snow would fall while she

and her little bud would grow beneath her family’s eyes.