Turning of the season
Is the sweet caramel wail of a cello,
not quite in this hallway but maybe on the second floor.
Heavy step on my way to cast my laundry
into the pond
cradled by the mum beds—
they are heavy with dew and yesterday’s rain
I leave them kisses—
in the hopes that I might learn something
about the warmth of me from the cold as it braces my hips
once I re-dress.
(The trip home is longer, everything is heavy)
Is the collision of teeth, yellowing with guilt.
Elbows growing sorer and sorer and smelling of
the orange peels
left creased in half.
A narrow pile on the table. A chest
with too much to say about
the way the sunlight enters the room and slams the door behind it.
I don’t tell my mother most things and
surely not this. I am sure she would scowl—
sprinkle my knuckles with rouge—
if she heard I was disappointed with
one of God’s gifts.
Turning of the season is
rejoicing at little deaths
collecting them for pressing this Wednesday night
finding a heart in the little green which remains at the
center beside the veins, not ready to go and wishing to taste this year’s first
Mourning each day and the birds who cannot see so well in the dark
earlier and earlier.