everyone is becoming
everything is becoming

the grass wakes up in pulses of green

trees stretch into themselves again

birds rehearse joy like a familiar script
and
I
a bare tree
not dead
just undecorated
too naked amongst the luscious
I sit in the middle of blooming

like a teenager who missed the cue

my skin doesn’t feel new


the light touches everything with tenderness

except me

skipping over
like I’m not ready

or not worth

or not

yet

maybe this is my season of pause
maybe
but maybe
I’m just behind
and it’s hard
watching the world dress itself in celebration
while I stand here

unbuttoned

unfinished

unbecoming