The Last Frost

Morning breaks its teeth on windowpanes, each crystal tooth melting to nothing— spring's assassin, winter's final breath.

The garden knows what we refuse to see: rebirth is not gentle, it is the sound of roots waking, soil cracking open, impatient.

In the grass, yesterday's snow bows to the sun's indifferent judgment. We wait in this threshold, neither mourning nor celebrating, just watching the world choose again.

Even the birds seem uncertain, their songs half-formed, questioning, as if asking: is it safe? Can we begin?