Threshold

Frost retreats like breath from glass, the green beneath awakens slowly—each bud a small defiance against the lingering cold.

In the margin between then and now, roots reach deeper, threading dark earth, while above, the light stretches longer— each evening it remembers its own name.

Nothing announces itself here. No fanfare in the unfolding. Just the patient accumulation of what was always going to be.

A threshold needs no threshold-keepers, only the quiet certainty that what passes through changes, and what waits behind the door is already becoming.