Demeter’s Sunroom

Rain murmurs against panels of curved
glass, sliding like mercury, glistening
in slow-motion. Blades of a ceiling fan swerve
and hum overhead as you read, I listen,
in wicker lounge chairs. Ankles crossed, knees
splayed to hold Bulfinch’s myths, you lean
forward, turning the pages, a modern Persephone
in braces and polka dots. On the verge of thirteen,
blooming among orchids, begonias, passion vine,
your voice echoes, saturating space with sound.
I close my eyes. Dreams and duties intertwine,
time erodes, and language, stolen underground
by bandits, germinates in soft soil. Words unfold
like petals between us, ruby red, tinged with gold.