_ for North and South, for dusk and dawn, for cider and jasmine_

The axis tilts
not toward, not away
just enough to hush the rush,
to gather breath
between bootprint and barefoot,
between cider simmering in a northern hearth
and
jasmine blooming in a southern breeze.

Pause.
Now.
Pause again.
The Earth inhales.

Amber dusk settles over woollen shoulders,
while indigo dawn slips into linen skin.
Somewhere, a spark dares to rise
golden, blooming, a hum in the chest of the South.

Somewhere else, a hush falls
rusted leaves scatter,
falling like memory into the North’s open palms.

We are tilted,
but not broken.
We are mirrored,
but not the same.

Harvest gathers in one hand,
budding dares in the other.
The bootprint of winter presses into soil,
while barefoot spring dances across it.

Cider and jasmine.
Woollen and linen.
Gather and scatter.
Breathe and breath.

The equator is not a line,
but a pulse.
A dare.
A rest.
A hush that hums.

We rise, we fall.
We fall, we rise.
Golden rusted.
Light shadow.
Shadow light.

And in the centre
the pause.
The now.
The breath that belongs to both.
To all.