Mythe

From deep in the sacred stream of sleep
I am raised awake
by the song of noisy birds.

I had been happy, dead
to touch and scent
in a field of white flowers,

but the insistent earth
sprouts vines from its damp soil
to entwine my limbs,

wash me in the fragrance
of honeysuckle and jasmine, until
I own no slumbered sense,

but walk and laugh and roll
in the lush greenery of Persephone's rich fields,
unwary of my necessary Fall.