The Thaw

The soil holds its frozen breath beneath a blanket of crushed leaves, waiting for the sun to tilt and touch the hidden roots of dormant maples.

A slow weep of water begins, trickling down the icicle's spine, carving tiny rivers in the mud, a silent, persistent undoing.

Green shoots press against the dark, blindly seeking the sudden warmth, a quiet rebellion in the stillness, the earth remembering how to wake.