In Hazel Hall’s “Habit,” a woman has just finished her work, probably sewing, and notices her hands as if they don’t quite belong to her. They feel estranged, slowly rediscovering ordinary life through her pulse. When she looks out at the bright night sky, she doesn’t simply admire it. Her trained hands immediately begin to imagine feather-stitching a ring around the moon. The poem captures how deeply habit can shape perception. Even in a moment of rest, her mind and body return to the motions of work. The mood is quiet and a little eerie, with a sense of weariness underneath. The speaker seems both detached from herself and unable to escape the craft that defines her. The image of sewing around the moon is lovely, but also suggests that labor has crept into every part of her life, even the sky.
Habit — Summary
Last night when my work was done, And my estranged hands Were becoming mutually interested In such forgotten things as pulses, I looked out of a window Into a glittering night sky. And instantly I began to feather-stitch a ring around the moon.