Winter is coming. An infinite-seeming solitude, isolation, lethargy, almost forgetting what it was to get out of bed and walk to the window... Persephone knows this and accepts it with a child’s patience.

She alone collected and arranged the flowers. She herself would be the one to set the beatles and the butterflies about their work, decomposing the borders of time and flesh. Once more she breaks open a celebratory pomegranate, feasting with abundance and joy until she is almost satisfied to stop. Its fragrant juices overflow her fingers and stain her lips with royal purple.

Here are the smells of ichor, petrichor, fruits, flowers, and the coldness of coming snow. Only humans are afraid, but only saints are stoic. The Goddess goes to her underworld dancing, barefoot in the fallen leaves. Waiting only makes it worse.

Spring will come again. Persephone knows this too.