Yellow

When the sun rises every morning

she warms, she glows.

When she peaks at high noon

she shines, she burns.

Either which way she does not apologize

for being too soft or too strong--

both are necessary

for one breeds life and one

sets ablaze to clear our path

so we take root in new beginnings

from the ashes.

Why can't I be full of fire and

sweet like golden honey,

the byproduct of bees who can gripe and sting?

Ornaments made of glimmering gold,

mesmerizing and awe-inspiring,

malleable and cold, sometimes I

bend and break to become again and again.

And I no longer choose between being

soft or strong,

sweet or fiery,

warm or cold,

I just am.