Published in Long Way Through Ruin, ©2013
DEMETER AND PERSEPHONE IN NORTH AMERICA
Even in spring she is there among the horses,
the pale crocus. Even in rain. She is there
and she is quiet. I saw her standing in the garden,
I saw her standing by the road
down to the store.
Without speaking she reveals herself to me.
Without speaking of roses, or verbena, or the sea.
The earth would drain of color
if she were denied.
There is a sacredness that means to listen.
The thrumming songs of frogs
that sing and fall silent and sing again
at the rim of the pond. Those things unseen
by which we are bound. Faithful,
as the tulip in winter.
And for the girl hauling
her armload of sorrows like sticks for a fire,
this hushed place, this leafy amplitude,
this opening at the edge of the woods
favored by honey bees in summer.
After the news from the doctor
I lay down on the bed and slept.
It seemed the one place to go,
into the world of dreams,
and all through my dreams the wind,
the huge surging breath of the wind
untamed through the trees,
lifting and stirring the leaves until each
scorched leaf, dying a little
at the turning of summer,
tasted the wind as if it were fire,
as if the wind would destroy it.
Even in the silence of the dream
I heard the wind tearing the leaves
from the huge sugar maples,
and this made me serene,
for no reason. And when I awoke
a squall had blown in from the coast,
a salt-drenched rain
fell slant through the trees.
And I lay there remembering
each face I’d ever loved,
untroubled by longing or regret,
the fire burning its way through.
Kathryn Hunt’s poetry challenges us to go through a landscape of desire and memory. If you want to explore this further, use the Contact Form or Email Me. I’d be happy to talk about it with you over the telephone.
May you be filled with goodness, peace, and joy.
Bob Tschannen-Moran, MCC, BCC
LifeTrek Coaching International
121 Will Scarlet Lane
Williamsburg, VA 23185-5043