Turning

My apartment of so many

gladly spent nights now seasons

itself in your absence. From

a cold green-spring dew to

melting summer blacktop

parkinglot to yellow drooping

fall. A white winter, somewhere.

My thermostat cycles, regulating

up and down the temperature as

needed. Needed. I cycle, too. In

and out of months. In and out

of eggs I used to be afraid would

catch. In and out of sleep.

I cycle, too, every day down

whatever season’s Tucson

road is now come. Maybe an

evening moon hanging

between peaks of the Rincon.

Maybe the tires stick to the

gooey road and resist turning.

A hundred yards beneath my

feet. Then stopped to wait for

the light to change. Red, green.

It changes again

behind me. A thousand yards.

Then seventeen hundred and

a third light. I pedal backwards

going nowhere, deciding. I turn the wheels

over again. And again and whether

I ride by, sequestered, again,

against the curb in my tiny

bike-lane, whichever season’s

inconvenience buffeting me now

is irrelevant, really, to the turning.

--RFRY, 22 Jul 06

Drawn from / inspired by / a version of Susan's Turning.