Birthing the Balance

I’ve grown tired of begging folks to stay with me in the yellow—

to wrap themselves in the warmth of my embrace even as the edges grow frayed from a world

that never knew what it meant to be mellow or claimers of peace.

They’d rather repeat the justification of their wrath.

Call it a necessary fire that we’d be wrong to cease.

It is yellow, like a solar eclipse that causes me to cry to find the balance.

There are days when I regret making friends with my grief, but then I remember all the times she

helped me give birth to my joys.

Then, how my joys married my freedom.

Freedom would later die many deaths to my tears, but Grace became the judge and jury, and it

was mostly a fair trial.