This piece was written by Christina Tidmore, one of my local readers and close friends, known on the site as SorchaRose. Christina is a splendid writer, if I could just get her to write more. :) -- Gabriel

I am Penelope and sit at the loom,
Silently working the shuttle,
Weaving, weaving, weaving
The death shroud of a man
Once majestic and proud.
No, not a lover or a suitor, at least not mine,
Though I but loved him all the years of my life.

He was a tree crowned with russet-red leaves,
Sturdy and weathered and worn, and mine,
Mine as no man was or is or will be,
A tree, a tree.

And he moved me.

Sometimes he feels like a lie,
A fragile, china-doll lie,
With callused hands and cracking skin,
Muscular and thin, oh but not too thin,
Smelling of wood, earth, and sweat.
Days and months and weeks fly by,
And I'm still weaving, weaving, weaving
This lie.

No, no, never a lie.
I was a child, and he was alive.

No, no, now he is changed.
Paper skin draped over cardboard bones,
Thin wispy cobwebs coating his head.
A tree, a tree,
A twisted grey tree,
He calls out to me.

I am Persephone
Descending, descending, lost in Death's lair.

A tear drops down and begins to mar
The white, white fabric
Of the shroud of a man once majestic and proud,
Like black, black tar.

I am Penelope and try to weave,
Fingers shaking and shuffling, clumsy and thick,
Stumbling and bumbling,
Tears of tar carving rivers, rivers, rivers,
Down my cheek-cliffs.

All the years of my life
I never imagined
The tree, the tree
Crowned with russet-red leaves
Would be a mangled, dead tree,
Knotted and wilted, ashen and bare,
Eyes focused on nothing,
Heart no longer pumping.

Then I'm climbing the stair,
Winding ancient stair,
And he's calling to me,
Voice echo, echo, echoing.

The fabric's reached the end.
I smooth it over, blemished and black,
And pass to the room where lies he.
And the air is thick, the room is stale.
The winter is here, the tree is felled.

I place the shroud down, down,
Down over a man once majestic and proud.
He calls out to me,
And the black, black tar
Begins to sculpt a tree
Crowned with russet-red leaves,
Sturdy and weathered and worn and
Mine.

I am Persephone, returning to spring.
Though humbled and moved
By a man who stood once majestic and proud.
But I reach the surface, and break free from the ground,
Oh let the sun shine,
Let the light in.