"Redbud" by Ameythist Moreland

Redbud

At first, they were barely there—

buds no bigger than grains of rice

clinging stubbornly to a bare branch,

pink pressed to the backdrop

of spring’s early green.

Small promises,

silent and unassuming,

easy to overlook

if you weren't paying attention.

But I was.

Each morning I went to the window,

camera in hand,

waiting for their secrets to spill.

There was no trumpet call,

no grand announcement,

just a gentle insistence.

A blooming made of patience.

Everyday a handful cracked open

spilling color like gossip.

A little louder.

A little bolder.

Now the tree hums with it,

hundreds of blossoms

trembling against the breeze,

turning the whole backyard

into a whispered riot of pink confetti.

It reminds me of us.

How you were a soft thing

at the edge of my awareness,

then a curiosity,

then a comfort I couldn't ignore.

How this grew—

not in leaps,

but in moments.

Subtle salutes,

shared glances,

the lingering where we both know

we shouldn’t have.

Until one morning I realized

I was standing inside a garden

I hadn't even known I was tending,

watching something

wild and beautiful bloom

just for me.

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Ameythist Moreland holds a B.S. with concentrations in English, Language, and Health from Western Michigan University. She is the author of two new-adult science fiction novels and an emerging poet whose work has been featured in several anthologies, journals, and magazines. For more information, visit www.ameythistmoreland.com.

 Instagram: Ameythist.moreland