Emily Jewel Mundy
It’s Sunday, and the sun is being shy. The gamut of colorful garden tulips gulp at the shine when it peeks through the stubborn clouds, saturated and relentless. It’s Sunday, and the sun wears a coy pout, periodically peering at us with sultry-soft eyes, blinking over her shoulder. Days like today are the lightest, in fact. The bulb at max brightness. The blare of noon. The six remaining days in the fabricated week are soaked in charcoal colors, clamorous with thick-thumping rain. Spring has sprung but she’s having trouble sticking to a schedule. Spring needs conjuring. Under Persephone’s thumb, she spots in and out from the sky, spears her thin fingers through the soil until Spring’s goddess relinquishes her and grants full reign over infantile roots. I pull cards for Persephone. The first: the nine of cups, leaning right. It emerges from the deck with purpose and speaks of its innate nature: a rise, a clarity of purpose, a freedom from hesitancy and apex of growth. Spring! you have sprung yet again, you are Persephone’s past. She was picking flowers when abducted from the meadow. Spring, you are since allowed to sprout only when your goddess can return to Earth. You are stuck in barely-blooming until her annual emancipation. Her present card crawls out upside-down: the four of pentacles, reversed. It glowers with a fear of upheaval, with a heart that holds tightly what it already has. When Persephone was taken by Hades to be his wife, to assume the throne in the Underworld, her mother made Winter, cast death upon the plants and flowers in a great, grieving halt of ripening. Having been fed six pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, Persephone was perpetually bound to the realm below for half of the year, in which the earth would wilt and wane without her nurturing presence. Just as Earth is enwrapped in dramatic flux, our Persephone is thrust from under to upper realm and back again. Her blackened eyes are bluing; the deep hue of her hair is lightening. Our underworld queen is climbing through the core, Spring is slicing through the grass, the sun is siphoning its light. Which brings us to her last card: The Moon, upright. The moon, she moans! She, the dim light that illuminates the darkness; she, the shadow of the soul; she, the mystery. She gleams and glows through the sharpest winter. She sheds light despite the sun. So, conjurers of Spring—when the shy sun seeps through the clouds, turn your face to her, ask her to look a little past her shoulder. And then some. And then some. Persephone is coming, carrying Earth’s buds and bulbs. She needs your beckoning. She needs your growth. She needs your yesses. It is—almost—time for picking flowers with her again.
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