Deep in the earth, I walk in a tunnel,
I cannot live only in the sunshine;
the sound of faraway water, or is it a cello playing,
a woman weeping?
Persephone, forced to spend
half of each year down in the darkness;
in those cold times
her mother Demeter searched and wept,
searched and wept.
Tunnel divides, I go left,
through an arched doorway;
stairs lead downward, light dims,
soft shadows gather;
here a niche in the wall:
Blue Willow teacup, doll size,
drawing of a fairy,
letter from my cousin Lynelle.
More stairs, now I feel the cello, the shadows
in my blood, my bones,
they must be honored;
down here, rooms I never enter,
I know enough already;
I stand outside each door
and weep.
A Life in Poems 