Soft Threshold

Frost retreats without announcement, leaving only the memory of silver on grass that remembers cold. You step through ordinary Tuesday light and something has shifted— the angle of sun, the weight of air, the way silence sounds different when it carries warmth.

No fanfare for the turning wheel. Spring doesn't arrive with drums; it whispers in the spaces between the last snow and first green, in the bird that stays instead of flying south, in roots that decide to believe again in the soil that holds them.

We are always living in the space between— between what was and what becomes, between the breath held and the one released, between the knowing and the wondering. The world shifts gently while we watch for dramatic signs, missing the soft threshold where everything already changed.

Even now, some small thing is quietly deciding to grow.