And when the year turns
like a calabash in careful hands,
we gather at the edge of the night
where the old moon loosens its grip
on the frayed hem of yesterday.
We bring what we can:
a bowl of unspoken hopes,
a handful of dust from the road behind us,
the quiet names of those
who walked partway and no further.
The wind moves through us
like a priest with no need of incense,
blessing what it touches,
ignoring what pretends.
In the centre of the clearing
we place a small flame
not to banish darkness
but to teach it how to listen.
Around it we stand,
each with our private weather,
each with our river muttering
beneath the ribs,
and we let the silence
choose its own shape.
Then, as the first light
unbuttons the horizon,
we lift our fictions like lanterns,
not to deceive
but to guide ourselves forward
through the uncharted corridors
of the coming days.
For a new year is not a door
but a long, breathing threshold,
and the ceremony is simple:
step across gently,
carry your stories with care,
and leave room in your hands
for whatever truth
is still learning its name.