November waltzed in wearing gold,
a little smug, a little sacred,
like she knew we’d been waiting—
the way lovers wait for the sun after rain,
or how a woman waits for clarity
after years of “almost.”
She said, Darling, breathe.
You’ve tilled your soul enough.
You’ve watered the vision, whispered to the moon,
and survived Mercury’s drama
without cursing a single ex (well—maybe once).
This is your harvest.
Not just the one with fruits and figs,
but the invisible kind—
the peace that hums at dawn,
The way your joy now fits
without needing apology or permission.
November, with her velvet skies,
laughs softly as she pours abundance
like honey over your patience.
She winks,
because she knows what you’ve endured—
How you made alchemy out of ache,
and art out of aftermath.
She adjusts her crown, looks you squarely in the eyes,
and whispers, “Receive it.”
The blessings. The love. The overflow.
You’ve manifested grace with both hands open,
and even your shadow applauds.
So dance in your divine ridiculousness,
sip your tea like it’s champagne,
and tell the Universe thank you—again.
You’ve arrived where you always belonged:
in the sacred luxury of your own becoming.
Because, my love, you are both the prayer and the punchline—
The holy joke that God tells when She’s proud
of how far you’ve come–
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