I felt a little like Persephone this morning, as I walked and let my fingers run through the tall grass on the field by my mother’s house.
Like Persephone before she was Queen of Hades,
when she was only goddess and lover of flowers.

I found a patch of white dandelions.
Little moons brimming with wishes yet to be made.
So I plucked a few, started wishing

Let Sinatra play at my best friend’s wedding. Let her have country walks in springtime for the rest of her life
Let my father have some peace of mind and a rainy summer so that his cherry trees can grow tall and green
Let me go to Cuba and drown in all that blue

Perhaps Persephone would have told me to be more careful
walking around those fields of flowers, making wishes.
Before you know it, she would have said, the ground is cracked open and you’re pulled down. The summer wilts to winter in the world above you—
and you—
you are starved and start to forget about light and water
and even those precious moons.
The ground is cracked open and you’re pulled down.
Be careful, she would have said, because before you know it,
you’re convinced it’s love.

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Tonight I felt a little like Hades,
Walking alone in a house built for 2, drinking tea and eating honey dipped pomegranate seeds with lemon. The ruby red of the seeds reminding me of your favourite lipstick.

My solitude is a welcome gift at the end of winter,
My lover returned to her place and family at the other side of a vast body of water.
Not to be seen again until autumn.

She left the memories of her smile, her warm embrace and her gentle kisses, from them I’ve sown the fields of Elysium where I find bliss waiting for her return.

She left the two plants she bought me and her favourite sweater, from them I’ve planted my Asphodel meadows, here I find rest on the nights I think of her.

She left me with despair for the thought that we would never see each other again, because she’d find something else, because of an accident or because the world is a big place where chaos reigns, from those thoughts I’ve dug the pits of Tartarus, where I climb down into on the dark days when the distance feels insurmountable.

I’d like to think Hades would have told me to be patient,
That if you both loved each other you would find a way.
That learning the difference between forcing someone to eat a pomegranate seed
And allowing them the choice,
Is the difference between yearning for them happily
and wanting them here regardless of their feelings.

That in the end, love must be free to be.
That without freedom and choice, love will wilt and die.

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I would have liked to listen. I would have liked to take his advice.
But patience—for the gods—is only a minute or two spent in silence,
is only a minute or two of not having what they want.

I would have liked to listen. I would have liked to take his advice.
But finding love—for the gods—is only a minute or two of crafting an eternal companion,
is only a minute or two of rearranging the world. The gods take what they want, they know nothing of finding.

And yet,
I have tried rearranging the world and I have tried staying silent. But it is always about love, never patience nor time.
I am stranded on the other side of that vast body of water.
I am stranded and it is still about love.

I would have liked to listen. I would have liked to have followed the ums and the errs.
But patience is all we are allowed now, long hours elastic creaking at it seams
We push through the darkness at their whim and hope reaching

I would have liked to listen. I would have liked to have followed the ums and the errs.
But finding sound and holding breath is long forgotten and left us yearning
For old shapes on the horizon. They imagine what they want and we pull it towards us.

I have tried rearranging the world and I have tried staying silent
But it is always about love.

From the beginning of anything that is all there is.
Letting go.
The truest love that can be known, without which it is not true love.
Pure. Unconditional. Without restriction.
Love, in the surest form, is solitude.

Seed. Growth. Pollination. Fruit. Seed again.

An epic cycle. Love if you will. But it is a solitary thing that must be free.

This spring I felt like Artemis Agrotera, wandering and running through the woods and forests to which I belong.
Not missing many as my agape for these places is just as strong as any affection I may have towards the people in my life.

Stronger perhaps as I never tire of the trees and the moss and the lakes, while even those that are my friends make me weary in hours.

I don’t actually want my respite from most people to end.

I think Artemis and I could have experienced philia, running through these woods.

Free to love the way that is natural to us.
Feeling the sunlight as it brings life to the ground, glorying in the rains as they unwittingly gives breath back to a winter-dry desolate place.
Breathing in the scent’s of the pines and the spruces, caressing the birch trees bark and feeling the waters envelop us in the lakes.
We would laugh and sing and perhaps, at the end of the day, fist bump in appreciation of each others company.

Mutually appreciating the range of feeling most believe we lack. It is not often I meet with people who know that just because I almost never experience Eros, that it doesn’t mean I don’t love. My love is that of Agape and Philia, Storge and Pragma and perhaps most importantly Philautia.

Now as autumn is here and Winter is visible on the horizon. I feel like Hades once more.

The nights are getting longer and all I want is for my lover to be here, drifting of to sleep beside me, spooning the autumn angst away.

I’d like to think that Hades and Demeter has come to a better understanding now, that they would talk from time to time and that Persephone would chat with her mother as regularly as a daughter wants to talk with their mother.

We would walk the woods that is my home, my Persephone and I. Find ourselves by the small secret frog pond, sitting down breathing in the fresh air and glorying in being alive.

Then we would return home, make a simple meal, a salad with pomegranate dressing. Eat it together in the warmth of the fire in the hearth.

I think in the end, life only makes sense to me if it is about all the different versions of love we can celebrate.