Blessed Are the Flexible

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

It is not the rigid tree
that survives the typhoon,
but the bamboo—
thin, quiet,
its body curved like prayer,
never once asking the wind
to be gentler.

Blessed are the flexible,
the ones who let go
of the need to be right
before being kind.
The woman who remakes her life
with each unexpected morning,
the man who learns
to cook for one
after years of setting two plates.

They don’t snap
when plans fall through,
when people leave,
when promises fray
at the seams.
They bend,
they bow,
they become a new shape—
and somehow still themselves.

You’ll find them
in the quiet corners:
those who laugh
when the rain ruins their hair,
who find new songs
in silence,
who turn detours
into stories worth telling.

They are not made of steel,
but something better—
resilience spun with grace,
threaded through the muscle
of letting go.