Spring bashed her head against
your steel-strong doors,
and you dismissed her agony
with cold laughter and frost
on the window panes.

Huddling in the foyer,
she cursed your wretched entropy
and shredded papers into piles
akin to snowdrifts on the floor.

A cuckoo chuckled,
laughing at her ironic displeasure,
and you clicked your tongue
in feverish joy
and turned back to your TV show,
preparing for her next long tirade.

Fingers slipped into scissor handles,
she furrowed her brow
and concentrated on your destruction.

But nothing came of her nonsense wishes,
and Persephone remained
in your fiendish—yet loving—
embrace.

Oh, what shame, to taste
those ripened pomegranates,
to feel the juice drip down her chin,
to peel the skin and smell
the broken seedlings.

Nothing could have stopped her
from taking a bite.
Sweet Goddess that she is,
Spring could not bring herself
to tear apart those fluorescent blooms
of neutrality,
and the world sank back into winter.

Laughing in egregious pleasure,
you twirled your fingers
in her daughter’s hair,
and she ripped out her own
in blind fury.

Something occurred,
something stirred,
making your earthquakes stop
their mind-numbing roar.

You held tighter to
her daughter’s hand,
but some force was drawing
your love away,
her willowy mother,
roots dripping down into your
hellish cavern.

You thought nothing
could escape you.

Now you must pay for your stupidity.
Karma really is a bitch.