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,
a visit blossoming, 
dying on the vine,
cycles without end.

Published in Verse Wrights