Persephone was born with eyes wide as saucers,
a string of flowers for an umbilical cord. Her fist
smaller than a pomegranate, that unshakable
faith. She dances around, only love taking up
the space of her tiny mouth. New, shiny, pink.
Vulnerable. Screaming like a warrior. Grows up
teething on sunflower stems. Pricks her finger on
rose thorns. Goes back for more. Dreams in shades
of wildflower. Angers the Gods when she prays to
willow trees, when she calls nature Mother and
bends down on her knees.

Grabbed from behind, brought to a place where
the flowers couldn’t withstand the heat. She
wilted. Older, dimmer, face red from the flames.
Angry. Screaming like a warrior. Uses her softness
as vengeance. Grows cactus, desert lilies, and alfalfa.
Says, I will make this whole place beautiful because
it’s all I know. I will be Spring. I will be an act of
rebellion against your desert. I will utilize this green
thumb and Mother will be proud. I will pray to what
taught me to see beauty, spread Her knowledge around.
I am the strongest flower and your heat will not kill me.