By May, the world has stopped pretending
it’s still waking up.
Everything is suddenly louder;
the grass, the light,
even the shadows seem more certain
of where they belong.

The days stretch themselves thin,
testing how far they can reach
before the sky snaps back.
Blossom gathers in corners
like someone sweeping beauty
into careless piles.

And you feel it tug at you;
that quiet insistence
to move, to loosen, to begin again.
May doesn’t ask what you want.
It simply hands you warmth
and waits to see
what you’ll do with it.