Poems by Rebecca Meaney
The Persimmon Tree
page 38 of Tarot #3
The persimmon tree in full bloom outside my window reflects off my white walls, making my room a calming shade of pale orange. It’s like looking through a lens into my own bedroom.
I’ll wake up one morning, any morning now, expecting to be met with the bright and colourful persimmon tree that brings me so much serenity, but it will be gone. The tree will now be naked, nothing but a vertical pile of sticks, and the reminiscence of my serenity will be on the mulch covered ground below it, slowly but surely rotting away. Autumn.
page 39 of Tarot #3
The cold air slaps my face as I step out onto the cracking concrete steps—two pairs of socks, boots, leggings, thermal, hoodie, coat, gloves, beanie. The cold air still manages to sneak its way through the microscopic, fine holes in my attire. The many minutes I spent styling my hair now seem as though they ceased to exist, and my toes slowly grow numb inside the wool and leather that hug them. Jittering teeth and lips losing colour. After a day, I walk back up the concrete steps, and I am met with the embrace of warmth and the smell of burnt wood. Winter.