The Third Winter Earthworms freeze in dank soil, slugs slither down, layer by layer, closer to Hades’ fire. They gleam, pallid globules on the roots of the pomegranate tree. Only the dream sustains me: Demeter unwraps two straw-wound wine apples. Ember-lit on her palms, they shine, red-streaked lanterns. She saves me the choicest, as if even now I might lean into her flank, lay my head in her lap as her blade splits the fruit, explores the folds of its juice-swollen womb. She flicks bloodripe droplets into the pink cave of my mouth with a halfmoon thumbnail. I crush them one by one between teeth and tongue, release winejuice in exquisite increments. Earth Mother, all winter I yearn for sap-rise, to walk with you through pomegranate fields, ripening the glistening fruit. Your mourning overwhelms me. I stretch my dazed mouth for a wine-rich seed, taste slug, bitter as cloudberry. This is our third winter sundered. Breda Wall Ryan
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