Every Season Has Its Time

Photo by Amar Saleem on Pexels.com
The season's hands now point to three p.m.,
as autumn's air subdues our summer sighs,
when one o'clock burnt like a fiery gem
and we were pressed by heavy, humid skies.
By six, the trees will shiver, bare and leafless -
the hands, set far and wide across the face,
will slowly scrape through winter's torment darkness,
as spring waits patient in its quartile space.

Linking to this week's W3  Weave prompt on The Skeptic's Kaddish, where Val , aka Murisopsis, invites us to write a Dizain from the perspective of someone who has synaesthesia. (https://skepticskaddish.com/2022/09/21/w3-prompt-21-weave-written-weekly/).  I have always seen the seasons in my mind as a clock face, which I believe may be a kind of spatial synaesthesia. Summer is at mid-day and winter at six o'clock.
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