TURNING OF THE SEASON - VERONICA HABASHY

By Veronica Habashy 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 swelling 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 persimmons. Mourning each day and the birds who cannot see so well in the dark earlier and earlier.