In its loveliness,
the blizzard freezes
a red wing to

a post.  Shocked
into stillness, the avian eye
clouds over.  Concave

sky overhead, snow
siphoning through cumulus in
hourglass precision.

Persephone has gone
under, a slow descent
into her world of Under.

Nothing is lost here,
not on purpose, what is
found is barren, wasted,
terminally hungers.

Lives its life in thirds,
ascends only
to ice.

____

Lately, I've been thinking a bit about life in relation to myth—basically, how we see ourselves as primary characters in the myths that comprise our lives. A person can assume a mythic stance to discover certain aspects of self. This poem is my attempt at an explanation of segmented perspective and its effect on personal myth.

Recommended Reading:

Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coehlo, Damage by Josephine Hart, and Breaking
Clean by Judy Blunt.