Thaw

The thaw moves beneath the surface, root-slow, patient as breath, a green insistence underneath snow.

I watch the creek remember how to sing, how ice fractures into arguments, into a thousand small reconciliations.

The world loosens its grip on itself— soil dark and breathing, buds tight as secrets about to be told.

We are all becoming again, all of us small resurrections, learning what it means to unfold.