Clearly, this is not the Persephone we know from Greece's patriarchal male-fantasy of an abducted rape-victim, but the Persephone of a much more ancient, pre-Hades time, a time when she was the true and only sovereign of the Underworld's wealth and riches.
I envision her cellar full of dark umber tones, a womb-like place of trailing roots and sleeping plants everywhere -- on rustic wooden shelves, in big pots on the floor, and in more pots hanging from unseen heights. There'd also be bags of seeds-of-light shining in dark corners, and baskets full of autumn squash, apples, pomegranates, and nuts. A few rays of sunlight would enter through chinks in the rock-ceiling, or perhaps through a high window. Persephone would be dressed in burgundy or umber wool in a simple medieval style. She would be tending her plants, her sleeves rolled up, out of the way, as she worked. It would be Her realm, a warm dark space where she readies her plants for a distant spring. There would be no Hades here.
In Persephone's root cellar there are many seeds -- wild mustard seeds, seeds of hope, of promise, of love, seeds of tolerance and blessing, seeds-of-Light. We can't ignore the patriarchies raging around us, but as so many millions of us sense, their time is ebbing. We must survive this tumultuous winter of androcentric warring, no matter how long it lasts, and ready the seeds for spring.