Persephone

My story is too dull.
As I ride along the river,
sun spots yawn and blur.
I count the mushroom
heads who stir and whisper--
same as last year.

At first traveling
down yearly felt good. I left.
I drew the heat and light
with me as a train,
and I its brown and rust
stained bride.

Centuries have passed.
As I rest in the deepening
sun, common birds
float, just as last year.
I press my hands
into the same tree's carved
bark--just as carved,
pitted, and brittle as before.

I am ever
a daughter, then
only a wife (oh the
lovely wife). In
the beginning my mother rued each fleshy seed
I ate: one to spite her, one
to spite me, and one
for him. I returned
this week, my mother's
work half done, and me
an afterthought. Spring
is a ritual of love, not love,
not even joy, and rain
and earth and matted
growth. I come and go
as I please now
--some winters I never
leave and just the same
no one notices me.


-- published in Ship of Fools, (Spring 1998, no. 41)

Copyright Louise Robertson