Thaw

The earth opens its eyes slowly, first in dark places where snow melts into the grammar of green. Beneath the crust, root systems whisper their readiness.

Everything waits for permission— the crocus knows this, pressing its purple head through the last freeze, the bird remembers its song from a life it almost forgot.

In the margins of thaw, where winter still holds dominion and spring already owns the air, we stand unfinished, caught between who we were and who we'll become.

The ice cracks open like an egg. What emerges is tender, blinking, uncertain it will survive the world's bright indifference, yet coming anyway.