old year’s, new year’s ode

And she took a bath
and washed her hair
and cleansed her [w]hol[l]y self of that
grimy year
though 365 memories remain in the dark roots of thousands of her golden strands,
more are silver now

Out into the cold air,
pitch black, save for waxing gibbous Moon
open pores
bare feet
wet hair
pouring her bathwater into a remnant patch
of snow-covered ground
drain and septic are unfit for this ceremony

Let this vintage
permeate the garden/
recharge the aquifer from which she bathes and drinks/ evaporate into cycles of the atmosphere that she breathes /

breathe, human, woman, breathe

believe this, yet better, know this:

everything is ouroboros.

nothing ever begins.

nothing ever ends.


About kimtnt

i was accidentally seeking, intentionally opining, intensely observing, building a microcosmos, creating art & writing poetry, all to become real View all posts by kimtnt

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