The Space Between

Spring holds its breath at the garden's edge, where green thinks about becoming, before it does. The soil still remembers winter's weight, but already tastes the salt of new rain.

We stand in doorways we haven't named, fingers reaching for switches we don't flip, speaking in the grammar of almost— words that live in the margin between silence and song.

The light changes its mind a thousand times before committing to morning. We watch it practice its geometry on glass, learning the angles by heart.

What grows in the waiting? What blooms when we stop trying to rush the clock? Even the river understands: the stillest pools hold the most stars.