Persephone

Struggling With carrying branches to dry for kindling, Cursing the seemingly extra long winter and those who keep bringing it; a shadow drifts over me like a primordial raven, and a rush of unseen limbs streak past me. Both alight before the barbed wire fence I keep meaning to repair in the spring in the summer in the fall. She turns her silhouette, robed in silver fur, towards me, I cannot see her face. Her white hand is on Cerberus who has one brow furrowed, watching me. One head is cocked, listening to the sharp whistle of wind through withered boughs the third is panting happily, anticipating an unrestrained romp through chaste snow. I bend my knee in adoration  of Persephone. A slight incline of the hooded cloak acknowledges my presence and my subservience; I am what she once was and will never be again. She stretches out a pallid hand, smooth and supple for a woman of 2000 years, this Queen of the Underworld who executes the curses men place upon the souls of the dead. In the cup of her hand glows a red pomegranate she no longer needs. From beneath her hood shine orbs of quartz crystal, I see my reflection in them and draw closer. Cerebus lays at the feet of his Queen, two heads stretched out on paws, impassively watching my progress, the third seeking my eyes, a low growl of warning indicating that I know my place as subject. I reach out upturned palms in faith and the hood inclines again I close my eyes,  a furious flurry of shrieking wind envelops me. The fury subsides. I feel the warmth of the afternoon sun. I open my eyes to snowdrops, crowding a carpet of green and pregnant branches thrusting their limbs towards the sky, and in my hand is a pomegranate.