New Zealand

Cloudy land of sun burnt hills,
Clutching at inverted air,
Spinning weather like Arlichino
In his patchwork suit,
Is a harbinger of balance…
A sonnet weighing the soul
As it lists right,
Then left, seeking its level
On seasons that whirl through a day,
Forcing nostrils open
To flare and contract at the scent of snow
And peonies.