High Society Spring

Proserpine’s a debutante who
comes out every year.

Waiting, Ceres cloaked
in  February wraps
frets and wrings the heads
off new-picked daffodils.  This
should be a happy evening, but
Pluto glowers in the darkest
corner, upset at having
only the first waltz.

Proserpine, a debutante,
greets the audience in silence.
A child laughs.

Ceres, pale with motherly
concern, turns her frosty face
on the puerile guest–who
is promptly escorted out.

Proserpine curtsies
and debuts in high society
a different way each year.
As the conductor’s wand sparks
the music, Proserpine with
pearl necklace glowing
dances more lithely than
nymphs in seawater.

With a sigh of relief, Ceres
slowly releases her grip
on the slender glass.  French
doors sweep open and people
of importance in greens, blues,
and gold mingle like the colors
of a summer sunset.

Proserpine shines in
the twilight stars and Ceres
smiles like roses blooming.
The evening’s warm and
Ceres, content with the stirring
elm trees, sheds her satin cape.


Proserpine’s a debutante who
comes out with the spring.

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