When vineyards become repositories of winter's dry and brittle leaves, a different mythology surfaces: the other face of Persephone, the goddess of seasons and vegetations who was kidnapped to be the queen of the underworld. Walking the vineyards this wintry morning, I see someone slurping a snake down its throat. A beak cawed at me. I turned to it with a furious face because some demons only have a one-word vocabulary: "fury." Three of them then flew up into the sky--my fury scared them. "Hah!" I thought as I waved them away. "I didn't become a poet by being harmless. Leave, demons, or I shall annihilate you all." Then, quite cheerfully, I continued my walk as the sun giggled with me.
This could be a prose poem entitled "So to speak..."
A Secret Poetics
Poets don't become
by being
harmless
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