My only daughter left, spirited away
by what it matters not.
Ceres my soul mate now.
I command
neither Spring nor Winter,
crops sprouting,
crops dying.
I can only weep
like that goddess
and understand why
lethal ice and screaming snow
were the least she could do
to birth revenge.
I will wait,
Daughter,
a visit blossoming,
dying on the vine,
cycles without end.
Published in Verse Wrights