Celebratory Toast

© Eduard Kyslynskyy / Shutterstock.com

Here’s to the hour before midnight on the thirteenth day of the seventh month when winter's hush quieted the wayward wind,

To the smell of spring and of hope floating on expectation and promise, believing you are always loved,

To knowing you are eternal with the wind of infinity in your hair and timelessness shining from your eyes,

To the tiny perfection of a mouse forepaw, the intricate pattern of a moth wing, the beauty of incessant ebb and flow,

To word puns that twist and turn back on us, tickling our intellect and poking our preconceptions,

To standing in the backyard at midnight, staring up at the stars, and breathing in their light,

To being kind to yourself, accepting that you are flawed yet perfect as you are, alone but part of everything, enough yet ready to be filled all the gifts life has to offer.