The Slow Surrender

The ice on the eaves begins its slow surrender, a rhythmic weeping into the softened mulch. The light has changed its weight, no longer a sharp blade, but a hand resting gently on the frozen wrist of the earth.

Underneath, the green pulse quickens in the dark. Root-tips feel for the loosening grain of the soil, drinking the cold, clear run-off of the ridge. A quiet chemistry is waking in the marrow of the oak.

The air smells of wet stone and old, remembered rain. A crow breaks the silence with a jagged, charcoal cry, shaking the last of the white dust from its wings. The world is unclenching, one drop at a time.