May, and the Quiet Bloom

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May walks in like a soft-spoken friend,

arms full of wildflowers and second chances.

She doesn’t ask me to hurry—

only to notice.


The way sunlight lingers longer,

golden and kind on my tired skin.

The way trees stretch with quiet courage,

buds becoming leaves,

leaves becoming shade.


I watch as the world reawakens—

not with a shout,

but with a whisper.

And I wonder

if I, too, am allowed to bloom slowly.


Some days, I still carry the heaviness of yesterday,

a dull ache tucked beneath my ribs.

But May reminds me—

there’s beauty in breathing anyway.


A warm cup.

A dog curled by my feet.

A laugh that escapes before I can hold it back.

These are the small miracles

that stitch life together

when everything else feels undone.


So here’s to May—

to the way she teaches me

that life doesn’t need to be loud

to be beautiful.


Just soft.

Just steady.

Just here.


 

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