she, goddess-born and -to-be, unfurls new leaves on the regular:

her curls like golden shoots frame a budding face

and her wistful eyes bloom dark green.
but still she gathers fruit, sows seeds,
shells peas, yanks weeds,
picks flowers for her hair,
and wanders where she dares.
her sighs send restless shudders through the wheat.
her mother,
with her summer-glory shine and
creeping worry lines,
prescribes herbs
and sleeps little.
when the ground parts for death
in his chariot of bones and black flames,
she, ripe and ready,
takes his cold hand.
they descend.
her mother finds the earth torn open,
the scorched crops, her daughter lost,
and drops. the flowers fall from her hair.
she, consort to a king,
leaves her ribbons, her dolls,
worn books and bright dresses,
her home an empty nest
to sit on deaths cold throne,
small, sheltered, new.
the dead call her queen.
she delivers curses, kindles fear,
braids lilies in her hair.
she feels eminent, lovely, grown,
and very far from home.
she, goddess, dread queen,
emerges slowly from the frozen earth,
hair pinned, jaw set, chin high.
each step begets spring:
the green fans out, the warmth spreads
as she strides across her mothers land.
an ugly scar mars the ground before her once-home.
her mother pulls withered roots,
failed remedies, from the mangled earth
with cracked and blackened hands.
soft footfalls raise her hopeful head.

her daughter plucks a seed from her pocket

and drops it, an offering, in the wound.
the flowers bloom.
they gather fruit, sow seeds.
the queens hands blister yanking weeds.
autumn will come, and winter too.
but from the gash in the earth grows
a pomegranate tree, supple and strong:
a promise to remember and return.