A reverence for tilt.
Earth has no love of straight lines. Even in space she tilts spins on her axis, the lean of millenniums solidified in stone, and fixed through the spinning, sweeping passage of our year.
One hemisphere to face the sun, the other turned away.
And in her love of angles, this precise, considered tilt, pass all the seasons of the year.
Tilt towards sun, the horizon lowers; a gathering of light and warmth, enough to stir the waiting seed, to swell the tight formed bud.
Still further, sun seeps into soil, a ripening of seed and fruit. Summer on the wing.
But Earth moves on, and hemispheres change place, take their turn in the sun.
At first, such immense change is almost imperceptible, felt only in the rhythm of the Earth, flowers fade, leaves turn.
But tilting further, the coldness of space seeps into earth, suspends the life within.
Time is our circle tied to the sun. The rhythms of Earth inherent in her journey and the miracle of tilt.