STEAM begins to rise from the pot. I sort the fruit, looking for only the best, the PRIME selection. This is a labor of love, one I am MOVED to each season: ripe tomato of summer; apple and pear of fall; orange, LEMON, grapefruit of winter. Only spring with its tender ephemeral joys – the delicate greens and pea shoots – evades my eager attempts to hold time still, to preserve in a jar the essence of life.

Georg’ann

Years of biweekly video calls
To SPEAK of universes that exist
in an earthen pot by the fire
and other mysteries familiar
to the CRONE and me.
In her presence
I gave birth to myself
without killing my mother,
wept from the depths of the universes within me
about my baby brother
now middle aged
TONED blue black grey
his skin carries stories like cave walls
released FELON seeking
simply to be released
Before me now, a still life
LEMON nesting in the blue earthenware bowl
What bittersweet universe exists on my kitchen table

Heather