In the balance
twice per year
a bright yellow star waxes or wanes
but on that edge
in this liminal space
between our lips
we wonder how many more are left
as autumn fades; yet —
come the month of March
hope blooms along old twigs
as buds that braved the dark and chill
beg for syrupy flows
to burst into flowers,
caress our lips with kisses,
fewer each year; but, still —
until the pith of self
has rotted away
we sway to glad tidings
of one more day
among the grateful.
Naw Ruz = new day = renewal: observed culturally on the spring equinox throughout Old Persia and religiously by Baha'is and Zoroastrians around the world.
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