Seasons at once

On the wall a season doesn’t always leave when the next one comes. Three summer meadows lie layered in a glacier face, grass and flowers and all; the striped curtains of a beach hut have frozen mid-billow at the end of summer; dust devils spin over a frozen lake; frost on a meadow grows up into daisies made of ice; a bitten red apple, leaf still on, is full of snow; a moth on a wet sill goes to snowflakes at one wing’s edge over a thawing garden; under a duvet, in a room with snow at the window, there is a summer meadow; and green summer mountains stand over a lake whose reflection of them is deep in snow.

The doors to another season are how one season gets through to the next; these got through without a door and stayed. Slopoween keeps to its month. A season left out past its turn doesn’t go: it sets in under the next one, the way the meadows are layered in the ice. Like everything on the wall, the pictures are machine-made.