Adonis wasn’t a sun-god either. Six months of the year
He stayed downstairs, far below enough it was infernal
In Persephone’s boudoir, big four-poster with hanging rugs
And lots of jewelry in the armoire, blood-red ruby drops,
Onyx, and emerald (for the hinterland at least, unseasonable).
She looked good in them, at banquets and receptions,
But at harvest time she shined, so bronzed and laughing.
After he wintered there, among that lazy oriental luxury
too Bohemian for a race of sailors, he moved above
To summer with Aphrodite, who despite her reputation
Was for his taste a tad maternal. But wherever he was,
His heart was elsewhere, in the boles of the evergreen,
In the knots no mountaineer could chop to their heart,
Wood you could only burn to find what was inside: him.
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