Iona Winter

listen to quiet in the rustle of leaves

and ferocious applause from the seventh wave

see beauty in harakeke choked by convolvulus

and respect the latticework of a bruise

smell the sweetness of rotten fruit beneath trees

and tī kōuka flowers at night

taste the depth of freshly turned earth

and the honesty of blood

feel satisfaction at the release of a scab

and the delicious surges contained in a kiss

sense comfort in ancestral knowledge

and trust in oneself always