I went gladly
to the underworld, never
looking back.
My fear of him was nothing
to the fear I felt
of her.
"Eat," he said, and smiled.
The berries were sharp
and sweet, my fingers
reddened.
Out there, Mother
closed down to the world.
Her fury was not
the fury of fire,
but of ice.
Whenever she went
it was winter--blasted
trees, fallow rock--hard
fields, no berries
anywhere.
The people mourned,
but their tears
could never warm her--
no more than mine.