Demeter

Snow and ice are seen as this wonderful conception

of God’s power. It indicates purity—snow white—a worldly

reset to make way for the wonders of nature.

Cruel, volatile nature. They never seem to warn you

that on the way down, your body sore and stiff from the wind,

to brace yourself for the abrasive surface.

My joints are an oxymoron. Moving around, immobility vying for warmth.

Your gentle touch on my skin, brushing against my face in sweeping strokes

as you attempt to support me is all that I can feel in this desolate Hell.

They say that Hell is red and burning, making your skin ripple

and bubble but in reality, Hell is this. It is a worldly reset,

eradicating everything in its wake as a form of cosmic cleansing.

You carry me a desperate few foot across the landscape; icy landscapes

that stretch out far beyond us, beyond our humanity. We were fools.

Distant, hopeful lights end up lost in the pure white glow.

Eyes sleepily follow snowflake trajectory. It falls from the sky in

much the same way your tears melt into me, revitalizing

whatever of my poor soul is left. Hellish fury.

This is what Demeter felt, isn’t it? Unholy temper. Grieving

the loss of her daughter by forcing the world

to understand what Hell feels like—

Jagged. Abrupt. Unforgiving.

I wonder if Persephone ever found her,

trapped in a block of her own suffering?

She cries, like you. Just like us,

even her own eyes could not melt her free.