Bittersweet Nectar

by Abbey Maffescioni 

Summer never ended, when I couldn't tie my shoelaces and my parents had to carry me across blistering asphalt.

Summer never ended, when I couldn't reach the hanging nectarines that blushed and teased, my Nan would pluck the juiciest ones.

My cousins sat with flushed, sun-kissed faces, covered in flowing nectar that dripped and dripped down our chins onto each others hand me downs.

Our toothy grins mirrored in one another, little giggles echoed and shrieks rippled around the yard, eagerly we slid across the wet tarp.

Our bodies littered crisp white sand as another day of eternal sunshine ensued. When it was time to go back to school our faces scattered with freckles, mosaics of a summer well spent.

Now the leaves almost finished falling, crispening at the edges, and covering the ground with layers of kindling. 

I carry my daughter across the asphalt, but it melts the rubber of my shoes.

I hand my daughter a pale nectarine in the air-conditioned store, we can't sit outside today.

My daughter splashes in the warm rock pools alone, she plays on a beach that never existed when I was a child, she slides down worn dunes that I have not known.

My daughter sits inside, laying on the floor with her classmates, windows drawn shut, shoes and socks abandoned, her only relief is a wet cotton rag covering her neck. She closes her eyes; she hears the ferocious hot breeze rustling through gum trees she can't see.

Now the dust swarms and sweeps the land, fragmented glass turns to sand while the polka dot polyester beach bag that went out of fashion last year sits untouched.

The sand cascades down and down, the nectarines rot.

I tell myself that summer won't last forever.

Shape of the Day

by Jo Curtain

“Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, ‘Stay awhile.’”—Mary Oliver

My day begins in the early morning light of a mountain ash forest. Mist has yet to surrender the branches, bare to everything. A stinging dampness glistens. Slowly, I follow the narrow path, past fallen moss-covered logs colonised by lines of tiny white parasols, delicate as paper, and spiralling tree ferns rise from sways of damp green lace. My eyes are drawn to flecks of orange sprayed across charred branches and tiny brittle amber shells, reminders of warmer days that cling to the bark. Wet leaves stick to my sneakers. I imagine the shape of the day and fear I won’t fit. 

Unfurling 
fern frond
a pattern of loss. 

Traces of you find their way into the forest. I pay more attention to the details of the soil, the texture of the bark and the changing light – I can almost see you turning up ahead. I pause to sit in the hollow of a giant mountain ash tree and feel the silver coolness against my back, wood softened by age. My body entangled, one layer at a time. I’m wrapped in a heavy scent of decay, damp and living. I sink into the history. We match breath until I hardly know where I begin and the tree ends. Closing my eyes, I say, “Okay.”

Stillness
mixed with dirt
grows a seedling.

Sunny Days

By Elyse Harrison

Sunny days make me blue,
For these are now days without you.

The grape vines are in full bloom,
But they remind me of how you left all too soon.

I hold on tight to the memories, fearful they will slip away.
But I have to let you go, and here I must stay.

I will love you forever, my heart whispers as the sun sets.
Another day has passed without you, but I will not fret.

For a small solace comes with each night,
When in my dreams we finally reunite.

The Winter Wind

by Jo Curtain

Seosomun Shrine History Museum and Park, Seoul

Stark winter bites. Gravel crunches underfoot. I take the longer route—there is always something more to see. Brittle brown tufts mark the names buried under frost-covered ground. 

a cold wintry wind
frozen shadow on the ground
meditating cat

I’m not sure what to expect. How does a building embrace history? In the sleet, my mind slips away with the ghosts that hover between the lines of brick walls—red soaked because nothing could stem the flow of blood. A pious wind carries the stilled voices. Lines and lines drawn. Sliced flesh. Tendons. Muscles are memories held in the land.

this sacred ground swells
slowly unravels layers
to tell the stories

I am here to listen. Your slow, serene paths move amid light and shadow. Heavy with knowledge. You take me on a journey underground and I learn stories of resistance, survival and hope. I let your quietness guide my thoughts and find comfort.

the winter light touches
hidden brittle scars
the cat’s shadow rests