“43”

{My annual birthday poem. 🎂}

©️ 2026 Shelly Moore

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The world is on fire,

its flames burning bright,

illuminating crevices

once hidden from sight.

.

This day I gain age —

now forty and three.

No need for candles,

there’s fire at my feet. 🔥

.

I won’t let it burn me,

though it definitely stings.

My fair skin turns red,

and pink stains my cheeks.

.

This Aquarian solar return

brings serotiny —

burning not just to destroy,

but so we can reseed. 🌱

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Watch the flames rise.

Revere what they light.

Stand in raw wonder.

Leave no room for fright.

.

For fires must burn,

and constructs must fall.

Towers must crumble

to be rebuilt for us all.

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As a child, I dreamt wildly.

As a teen, I was burned.

In my twenties and thirties,

I opened to learn. 🌱

.

At forty, something shifted.

I began growing wings.

Old scars found new skin.

Convalescence complete.

.

Now my arms are outstretched,

this fire warming my bones —

a midwinter blaze

as the dark is dethroned.

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I am not the fire.

I am not the flame.

I am the quiet knowing,

that nothing burns in vain.

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How Aquarian, really,

that truth would peak in the cold,

when the world is stripped bare

and false warmth can’t hold.

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Not during summer,

while under warm skies —

but when we’re all shivering,

forced to hold open our eyes.

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The Water Bearer doesn’t hoard.

She pours for the land.

She carries what’s heavy

with frostbitten hands.

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This fire’s not for comfort.

It is not for show.

It burns so the ground clears

so new things can grow.

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A season of reckoning.

A methodical fall.

A very Aquarian offering —

not for self, but for all.

…

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