Daphne

Born of Boreas’ cold breath,

she is snow before it touches earth.

Not a queen of winter

But a quiet answer.

No altar bears her name.

She moves instead through fallow fields,

beside Demeter’s grief,

teaching soil the patience of sleep.

Her blessing is pale and impartial

path and palace, crown and hoofprint

blur beneath her hand.

When the wind loosens its hold,

she lifts back into cloud and silence

never lost,

Ares

He is not called.

He arrives.

Born of thunder, raised on screams,

Ares wears no crown but blood.

Where others plan, he breaks.

Where others pray, he feeds.

Fear knows his footsteps.

Rout runs ahead to clear the ground.

Men become meat beneath his gaze,

armor only slowing the work.

He does not hate

hate is too careful.

He takes because taking is motion,

because stillness offends him.

Even wounded, he rages.

Even shamed, he returns.

War does not punish Ares;

it keeps him.

When the field goes quiet

and carrion birds descend,

that is not peace