The Between

The ice remembers its own thawing— how water begins to remember the grammar of motion, each crystalline note dissolving into whisper.

We wait in the between, in the small hours where nothing commits, where buds hold their breath and the earth keeps its secrets buried.

A single thread of green pushes through yesterday's dead leaves, insistent, unnamed, asking nothing but permission to unfold.

Waiting is its own kind of living— how the seed knows to split, how silence learns to sing, how spring arrives not as arrival but as the slow arithmetic of light.