Poetry, Prose, & Peonies

My body moves in seasons 

in cycles of four and five, 

I pace along my seething 

and wonder how to keep the fire 

In winter, I must descend 

like Persephone, underground. 

The cold and darkness hear me 

and until spring, I can’t be found 

I blanket myself in throes of throws 

blocking out all light and responsibility. 

My tender heart weakens and shivers 

but hibernation is not for society 

I find it hard to go outside 

I simper and howl in solitary pride 

for I’ve slept and wept and crawled 

back to my old habits like a moth 

to the flame or Icarus to the sun. 

But instead of heat and warmth

and lightness and hope I find 

something much darker in my 

robes of solitude, hidden from the 

likes of those who push through their 

weighted exhaustion. For I cannot 

feign the like. I cannot awaken in the 

deep hollow night of winters kiss 

I long for the sun, it’s her face I miss 

the most when I hunker down and 

sleep like Persephone and Hades underground. 

Then I awaken one day in the deepest slumber 

I wipe fatigue from my eyes and shake despair 

from my frame because something or someone

called me away. Up? Is it truly time anew?

I’ve woken unbidden and heard the sun’s dew 

calling frost off the blades of browning grass, 

calling all of nature out the icy blasts of winter 

like Demeter calling out for Spring 

“Come daughter, rise, it’s time to leave your 

King” and though I slept in comfort 

I must awaken like a stem, budding from the shell

and breaking free of frozen hell. I poked my head above 

using all my bloody might, I broke the surface 

and found my limbs weak and shaking for they

forgot how to run, oh they forgot the glory of the 

sun, still hidden, wrapped in grey cloaked clouds 

But I rise again, and stand up screaming loud,

“How can I do this? In the cold and rainy dell?” 

And Mother croons and whispers, “my daughter, 

you’re doing well.” But I’m weak and simpering 

and moaning and crying. Was this a miracle or 

were the Oracles still scrying their misery onto 

my head? For surely it can’t be harder than 

rising from the dead of night into the bright and 

blooming day, but spring is only sprung once 

she’s melted winter’s sway. The ice departs but 

the soggy chill remains, I recall the blankets cast 

over my aching sack of bones and find that 

awaking was worse than casting stones to find 

solace in the fate and mysteries, but the sun 

shone hotter, dancing across the sky for me.

She danced across the ether, calling Gaia to her 

feet and watched as buds bloomed and brown 

grass grew whole and green. Once more, trees bowed 

and bevy found, at last, their tender leaves to 

chew. Both flora and fauna bound with delight, 

the scurries and worries of the forest took flight, 

like the eagles that squawked and soared, like 

the ravens nesting their wisdom in the old oaks 

and willows, the whispering tragic wood. The old 

crone that stands there, as a thousand years she 

stood, bellowing in the breeze while hosting 

birds and bees and relishing in the delight that 

summer brought. A bounty for the gods, 

spilling over honey so sweet, the nectar only told 

in tales of mighty feat. Only fairies delight in 

these things, for if we tasted their glorious 

succour, for a thousand years we’d forget how 

humans suffer and return to empty homes, so 

for us, we avoid the rings, but stay a while in the 

harbour of the sun and dance and sing around 

the maypole, then graze our hands against 

midnight sun. I had forgotten my weakness, and 

how far I’d come from the aching, moaning 

slumber that weakened all of me, no it was 

always summer that made me feel this free! 

Dark skin under the blissful ignorance of the 

heavy work of day, for the beauty of the sun kept 

my mind in play, I conquered nations and valleys 

and to mountaintops I soared, of this complete

luminescence one could simply never bore. Oh, 

the sun, an ode to the bliss of the gods, of the 

righteous kiss of ray against skin leaving 

freckles as their reward. I turned my face to the 

heavens and blessed the earth and more. 

I didn’t notice when green turned gold and red, 

I didn’t notice the harvest shoots waving in fields, 

as rich as mother’s tongue. She tinkered and 

laughed and called me for her scythe, “come, 

daughter, the golden fields have thrived.” And off 

to work we went, taking what we sowed cutting 

away branches and shoots that could not bare 

to grow in the face of the mighty sun’s stare, we 

thanked them for their wisdom and parted with 

them there, separating between the wheat and 

chaff, taking the harvest and splitting in half to 

share with all who claim their feast for summer’s 

sun wrought the hunger’s beast. A cool breeze 

dipped off of Poseidon’s blue terrain, for all the 

food we’d eaten was all the meat we’d gain for 

survival in the season far ahead, but I wouldn’t 

see it, for I’d love them all till they’re dead. The 

shoots rang out their final cry and we fed 

ourselves and ploughed fields dry. I shivered, 

unexpectant of autumns cruel embrace and my 

blood slowed down and my heart forgot its pace. 

Mother once again tittered, for I, her silly child, 

had forgotten my duties while summer ran me 

wild. But she knew, and packed me bags and 

bags of rice, she knew I didn’t stop once, let 

alone to think twice before the seeds of 

pomegranate grew stale in their sweet taste and 

Hades voice rung out, “remember, love, make 

haste.” Tears slipped down my begotten cheeks 

and I remembered all I knew. I held my mother as 

close as I could and bid her and earth adieu. The 

cold seeped in and once again my muscles 

began to ache, I felt rotten and roiling when 

Samhain opened the gate. With tender tears I 

wiped my cheek and sang love songs to the 

land, for I knew when I returned once more, 

we’d have to start again. 

My body moves in seasons 

in waves of four or five 

I took my last breath and saw the flame come 

alive.

“Are you ready?” She asked, the old crone who 

danced in dew. 

“Am I ever?” I cried, the answer, she already 

knew.

“Your body moves in seasons, in moods of four 

or five, my love, please remember it’s why we’re 

all alive,” the old crone took my frigid hand and 

led me through the dark, “remember each 

season as a blessing, each phase must do its 

part.” 

Header photo via Unsplash.