Persephone’s Lark Song
I go for the light, the light, a love of heights and thaw. Sweets out of season. Daylong trilling trly and prrit. A whole flock’s skyward veer and the white of underwing. Living in the dark takes will. Irony. A strong stomach for dearth, dearth, dried fruit. And no harm, time to time, to sing too much in the sun, exotic plums, fresh blistered lemon on the lips. These flights are just a lark, a lark, a least creature’s thirst quenched. I do descend, in time. Once I’ve soared trilling out of sight, I’ll fold back wings and fall like a stone.