Threshold

The frost retreats in whispers, leaving glass-thin traces on the leaves— evidence of its leaving, not its power.

I stand in this in-between, where winter still dreams in the margins and spring hesitates at the garden gate, both of us uncertain which season owns the right to speak.

The light has turned amber again, that particular gold that comes only when day and night negotiate their borders, when the world holds its breath and admits it doesn't know what happens next.

Everything waits. The birds return with questions. The earth cracks open slowly.

I am learning the language of pause, that vast vocabulary between one thing and another.