I was inspired to write this by extending the metaphor a bit from yesterday’s poem. My poor mom.
Persephone gone so much of the year —
Her dear daughter — gone, there is no more Spring,
The leaves also fall as descend her tears,
Then winter wind imitates her wailing.
That missing presence causes constant stings.
She mourns her daughter lost down in the dark,
Small pomegranate seeds have left their mark.
I wanted to spin some words into something positive, but even though some pleasant things happened today, this is the best poem that got written.
revivedwriter 