O the violence

Of the green leaf on the red soil;

Of the cold air on my warm skin

Of the aliveness, the sudden wakefulness 

in my comatose body, 

my slumbrous indoor mind,

in Winter.

O June!

Southern Hemisphere Queen in your veil of mist, 

in your slippers of frost, 

in your crown of low cloud.

Your daylight is clear and your night is star-jewelled.

You are crisp in your movements and so quiet of voice.

You are naked in tree 

and wool-wrapped in sheep 

and feather-fluffed in bird 

and tail-curled in cat.

You are slippery in mud 

and ghostly in smoke.

You are shy and come out 

when the rest of us hide away. 

You take silent peeks at the sleeping world 

while any who dare join you for your short perambulation 

become shockingly awake 

and joyously alive.

Season of mine.

You are wisdom and melancholy and reflection and pause.

You are understatement and subtlety.

You are patient.

You are poised.

I like you.

Thank you for reigning here again.

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