The weather trying to make me loveable

For a season a year,

four seasons every year

There are four layers

for the one surface to turn up to

and turn over,

It gets through each one

one year at a time,

four times a year.

 

The surface, as always,

Time of the year

starts deep

And makes its way back up to itself;

It comes up with a layer after layer pull-down

Of a carefully put together

Well-memorised

Timepiece

Spiral

Brought down unwrapped from the distance of a total sun.

 

The surface comes down all the way round

And another is counted

Right where the previous one had been left.

 

The root is the only thing to experience everything.