The sunlight comes back like nothing ever happened.
Golden light spilling over hedges,
soft as forgiveness I don’t deserve.
Daffodils nod their yellow heads
as if the world has decided, again, to keep going.
Easter arrives dressed in pink and white petals,
in birdsong, in the fragile green of things
that dare to begin again.
Everything insists on life -
loudly, brightly, without hesitation.
And I try to breathe it in,
a shadow among blossom,
wondering why the sun feels like exposure
instead of warmth.
There are flowers opening in every direction,
but inside me something stays closed,
a fist around old winters
that never fully thawed.
This is a season of rebirth,
of rolling stones away,
of breath returning to quiet bodies.
But no one understands
how dark and loud the past can be
in contrast to a world
soft and new.
How pain sharpens in the sunlight.
How loneliness is louder
when everyone else is awakening.
I want to love it -
confetti blossom, bleating lambs, hatching chicks, the sky stretching wide and blue.
I want to step into it fully,
To be alive amongst the new born.
But I am tired in a way
that spring does not understand.
A relentless, constant tiredness
that sunlight can’t bring to life.
Petals fall, and fall, and fall,
and somehow the branches do not despair.
They let go.
How I ache to let go.
Yet I’m held between the wanting to for it all to end,
and the faintest of hope
for something to begin again.
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 7:01 AM UTC
The sunlight comes back like nothing ever happened.
Golden light spilling over hedges,
soft as forgiveness I don’t deserve.
Daffodils nod their yellow heads
as if the world has decided, again, to keep going.
Easter arrives dressed in pink and white petals,
in birdsong, in the fragile green of things
that dare to begin again.
Everything insists on life -
loudly, brightly, without hesitation.
And I try to breathe it in,
a shadow among blossom,
wondering why the sun feels like exposure
instead of warmth.
There are flowers opening in every direction,
but inside me something stays closed,
a fist around old winters
that never fully thawed.
This is a season of rebirth,
of rolling stones away,
of breath returning to quiet bodies.
But no one understands
how dark and loud the past can be
in contrast to a world
soft and new.
How pain sharpens in the sunlight.
How loneliness is louder
when everyone else is awakening.
I want to love it -
confetti blossom, bleating lambs, hatching chicks, the sky stretching wide and blue.
I want to step into it fully,
To be alive amongst the new born.
But I am tired in a way
that spring does not understand.
A relentless, constant tiredness
that sunlight can’t bring to life.
Petals fall, and fall, and fall,
and somehow the branches do not despair.
They let go.
How I ache to let go.
Yet I’m held between the wanting to for it all to end,
and the faintest of hope
for something to begin again.