I planted many flowers that December

and they bloomed

in spring,

wilted in June

and Demeter

plucked them from my

bony fingers.

Her eyes glazed with the

dust of my ancient tears,

My grey hair

cascading down my back

like the pain

that made its way across

my grief-stricken, widowed

and barren chest.

 

I planted flowers in September

when the school-children

would greet me with love

dripping from the honey cakes

from their mouths.

My flowers grew that September

when my love for the world began,

When the dust settled from the sky

and strawberry juice

dripping from my thirsty lips

made its way to my garden violets

lapping it up with their sweet sounds.

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