Draw the curtains, 6.30 a.m., December, the time of deep magic.

The magnetic glow of the moon, full and bright, knocks me into a stagger, the thrill and elation of this being the first vision of the day.

The chortle of my inner child, the manifestation of curiosity that is always open to love and life, the thing that has never left me, although countless have tried to squash the light. Yes the laugh of that essence rose from my extremities, travelling up and out of my throat faster than the ball that rings the bell following the strongman’s mallet blow.

The moon, brimming with ecstatic invitation, a pepper stuffed with sumptuous, hand-picked herbs, irresistible and plump, ripe with welcome.

The garden aglow, silvers, greys, and translucent blues, never more vibrant, each blade of grass alive and new.

My face awash with her frozen phantasmagorical gaze.

6.30 a.m., morning ritual, dark green traditions, mindful suppositions, December, the time of deep magic.