for the poet who balances blush and bold

Today the sun stands still,
not in silence, but in ceremony.
Equinox.
The halfway hush.
The breath between longing and light.

I stand in it,
bi and bright,
a poet with one foot in shadow,
one hand reaching for dye.

Pink, I whisper.
Not just a colour,
a dare.
A softness that sings,
a rebellion that giggles.

I’ve written in blue,
performed in black,
loved in every shade between.
But pink,
pink is the poem I haven’t worn yet.

It’s the sugar in my sock verse,
the blush in my jazz riff,
the kiss I send to the mirror
when no one’s watching.

Equinox says:
balance is not neutrality.
It’s the dance of both.
Of all.
Of yes, and.

So I gather my hemispheres,
the kink and the kindness,
the church and the cheek,
the ache and the anthem.

I braid them into a ritual,
a flyer, a placemat, a strand of hair.
And maybe tomorrow,
I’ll walk into the world
with pink on my crown
and poetry on my breath.