August comes in golden,
warm as breath
against the back of my neck,
bright as a griffin
watching over the edge of morning.
She does not roar.
She rises.
She enters like honeyed light
across bare shoulders,
like oil on the skin,
like a prayer
that knows exactly
where to place its hands.
And I say,
Thank you.
Not because everything is easy.
Not because every longing
has found its answer.
But because I am still here,
and the light in me
did not leave.
There is a certain kind of woman
August understands.
The woman who has been underestimated,
misread, mishandled,
and still enters the room
with grace in her spine,
warmth in her body,
and discernment in her eyes.
That woman is me.
Let that be written clearly.
I have learned
that positivity is not pretending.
It is a sacred discipline.
It is choosing beauty
with full knowledge
of what tried to break you.
It is washing your face,
lighting your candle,
making your tea,
letting your laughter return
slowly, richly,
without asking for grief
for permission.
Very elegantly, of course.
August reminds me
that joy does not always arrive loudly.
Sometimes it comes
as clean sheets.
A paid bill.
A soft song in the body.
A quiet yes from God.
The pleasure of being alone
and not feeling empty.
A mirror that no longer feels
like an argument.
These are not small things.
These are auspicious signs
of a woman returning
to her own throne.
So I am not rushing this season.
I am not explaining my glow.
I am not giving sacred access
to those who have not learned
How to approach gently.
Healing has made me tender,
but let us be clear,
it has not made me gullible.
I can forgive
and still keep the gate closed.
I can bless the lesson
and still decline the invitation.
I can love from a distance
and sleep beautifully at night.
This, too, is spiritual maturity.
So I welcome August
with my whole heart,
my whole body,
my whole becoming.
I welcome the warmth,
the doors,
the soft money,
the divine timing,
the sacred protection,
the sweetness I did not see coming,
and the peace
that knows how to touch me
without taking from me.
And if anyone asks
How I stayed positive
after everything I endured,
tell them this:
I did not survive
to become a monument to sorrow.
I survived
to become evidence.
Evidence that the spirit can rise.
Evidence that the body can soften again.
Evidence that pleasure can return
without shame.
Evidence that joy can find its way back
through the smallest opening.
Evidence that a woman can lose much,
learn more,
and still walk into August
radiant, poised, protected,
and guarded by the griffin
inside her chest–
© 2026 Sherley Delia. All rights reserved.
Healing Majestically 