Persephone, Please.

So listen, snow?

Could you blow,
and crack the cheeks
of your last
tormented particles?

Poor Tom's a'cold.

Would you,
you brittle thief,
you fractious plague
of ice?

You eat precious time,
swaddling hours' bones
in fragile slips of glass.

Listen nadir of Boreas,
could you return now
to your Thracian bed
and sleep?

Persephone has Raynaud's.
Unleash her blue fingers
to a rising warm.
Release her.
Open her palms.
Just sprout one
silky crocus.