Spring is not a makeover.
It doesn’t ask for before photos
or proof you’ve changed enough.
It shows up anyway
through open windows,
through sleeves rolled up without thinking,
through the quiet decision
to try again tomorrow.
The trees don’t rush it.
They don’t explain themselves
for standing bare all winter.
They trust green to arrive
when it’s ready.
I start doing the same.
Wearing the shoes I kept saving.
Raising my hand once.
Letting unfinished things
stay unfinished.
Some days I still feel small.
Some days I doubt myself.
But the light keeps finding me
on the walk home,
soft and steady.
Spring doesn’t ask me to be new.
Only present.
Only open.
Only brave enough
to grow in my own time.
