The Quiet Unsealing

The crust of March is a translucent skin, held tight against the earth’s uneven pulse. Underneath, the melt is a soft conversation, water finding its way through the dark, learning the shape of gravity once more.

Root-tips wake with a slow, electric ache, pushing through the frost-heave and the rot. There is no herald here, no fanfare of green, only the patient pressure of the rising sap, a heavy clock ticking inside the bark.

The air is a thin glass waiting to be broken by the first rough wing-beat of a returning bird. For now, we walk softly on the sleeping grass, listening for the sound of light hitting the ice, the slow unsealing of everything we thought was dead.