The Human Seasons

by Alice Hill-Woods

in memory of g. a. w.

All we have are the notes in our phones

and a lemon before it rots against

the ceramic fruit-bowl, blue memento

mori, the crazing writing age in webs.

Not the dusty kind, stuck to cilia

and the dark corners of a buy-to-let;

I mean the alive webs, silky and wet

in the garden, late spring, before the cough.

To hold a crocus and feel the city

emerge from its stamen; I knew you would.

A hospital bed now a riverbed,

a lemon holds its sun close to its skin;

remember to rouse me from my dreaming

before morning, so I can send this text.