First Month
My January, you cup the balm of my fortitude
in your hands streaked with breathing hope,
nursing the fertile seeds of renewal
with crystal mist so despicably beautiful
that moonlit fireworks glaze steadily
on night’s eyes, grounding my balance
with acceptance that throbs of both
discontent and love come
from the same seed: and how
this first month must be relished
in holiness of fresh dowry days--
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2024
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