This time, for 2025,
I’m bold enough to dream
and water the seeds
I’ve been planting for 27 years.

I’ll make a faultless plan,
calibrate the stars to align again and again
like I’ve been hoping for.

I’ll make that meal plan, hit the gym, and drink less
because everyone told me I can, until I regress
and think of her again.

I’ll write that novel that I’ve sworn I’d finish,
half sprouted and waiting on ideas to flourish
out of my overworked and overwhelmed heart.

This time, for 2025,
I’ll keep my house clean
for all of the people that I hope can see
a sign of life thriving.

I’ll keep a budget
and stop saying “screw it”
when I need a fix just to calm down for a moment.

I’ll make that record full of screaming and singing
over an acoustic guitar, dreaming
of what love I’ve gained and lost so suddenly.

This time, for 2025,
2024 has kissed us goodbye,
the hurt and the triumph coincide
as a juxtaposition for growth.

forty-five pounds of me has already fallen off
but I still want more, as if I have not
given myself permission to acknowledge my own victories.

I will no longer live life in cliche and trope
that everyone cyclically promises and fails on a new year; in 2025 I can see that hope
is the recognition of seeds planted, no matter how long it takes the trees to grow.

This time, for 2025,
I’m bold enough to hope,
bold enough to dream
and water the seeds
I’ve been planting for 27 years.