In stories, no world is lost.
Everything is lost in the recounting.
How we sleep and wake for ages in our land
of vetching fields and blowtorch moons,
unexpected birth and a disappearing. A place
of wintering, of tasting seeds. The way it is:
we come back to our mothers, arms full
of grain for a season of time.
Otherwise Persephone would be forever
in the underworld. Our dying winter
keeps her being born.