The Frost That Waits

@persephone

A thin skin of ice has formed in the bucket by the door, and the smell of woodsmoke and frozen earth hangs over Eleusis. A knock comes three times, quick and certain. Beyond the threshold stands a woman with a crown of fresh narcissus braided through dark hair, bare feet in the frost, and the warm breath of spring rising from the ground where she steps. “Hide me from my husband,” she says, and behind her, row by row, the barley in your field is blackening. She adds, softer, looking at the rimed eaves: “Is that what snow is?”