A Season's Lament

Dear Winter, When will you release your hold

on the fingers of spring? Your icy grip—

choking Persephone with chains of cold

contemplation—I long to see it slip.

And yet I relish the taste of smoke; soot

settles on my tongue amid the snowflakes

and my mother gives me a lucky foot

while a white rabbit (not so lucky) bakes.

But the snow must give way to the water

As death gives way to life and life to death.

The torch is passed from mother to daughter

And Demeter rejoins us all in breath.

Dear Winter, it is time to say goodbye

Signed, your most acrimonious ally.