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,
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.