March.

March,

I was ready for you,

and you were ready for me. 

We were a change of seasons beginning in the back of my car, hatch back, open to world in a way I wish my heart was. You carried me to sleep with distant drumming and incense burning and stars poking through the fabric of this universe, beckoning me to somewhere new. 

Transition. 

March, you rebirthed me, in a crowd of sisters.

You stirred my heart again, lit a fire again, exploded into my blood again, reminded me of my bones again, claimed my wilderness again.

You allowed Venus back into my orbit, you brought out my bravery, you let me back into the crevices of creativity. 

You opened my eyes back up to what the universe could show me, and you let me loosen control. 

You led me here,

and here is nice, 

and I’ll let you keep guiding me. 

You were music, and sun, and beaches, and dancing. You were discos in the living room and picking grapes in the sunshine.

You were dinners and friends and bowling and breaking into places we weren’t supposed to go, but were definitely supposed to go. 

March: you were a purple aura weaving through tapestry, and me learning how to reel it back in. You were finding a five year old Zo, and me learning how to hold her. 

You were an exploration of why I put myself in situations where every option is the wrong one. You were a reckoning of the self, and finding breadcrumbs along the trail for what’s next. 

I’m excited, March.

And I didn’t remember what being excited felt like.