Late Winter

Late Winter

Amy Katherine Cannon

A bowl full of Meyer lemons
fragrant, pregnant with sun
glints on the table, the same yellow
as the bars of evening light
lancing through blinds.

The orange tree outside
is further behind in February—
hard green fruit
small as finger pads promise
summer ripeness.

The nectarine in flower
and the apple offering
a new leaf or two
just beginning to bud
are slower still.

The wheeling seasons don’t click
perfectly together, gear on gear
but like swung hoops
hooked by boys with sticks
swirl unceasingly, mesmeric.

Growth doesn’t go
like we like to think.
Things green and fade
according to their own clocks
ignore our almanacs.

You plump and stretch
like swelling fruit
unfurl clenched fingers
too long for tiny hands
over days and weeks

a little less unable to accept
day and night, accommodate
their difference. You turn
more and more toward light
charting your own curve

bemused
to be alive
to find yourself
dropped here
a little unripe.

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Amy Katherine Cannon
Writer & Teacher

Amy is a writer and writing teacher living in Los Angeles. She received her MFA from UC Irvine and is the author of the chapbook "the interior desert" (Californios Press) and the mini-chapbook "to make a desert" (Platypus Press). Her work can be found in Bone Bouquet, LETTERS, LIT, and Rock & Sling, among other places.

Photography by Polina Kovaleva