The Softening

The ice on the pond is a clouded lens, unfocussing the sky's pale grey. A slow drip-beat from the eaves counts the seconds of the loosening frost.

Beneath the mud, the architecture of roots stirs in its dark, cold sleep. The scent of wet earth is a heavy ghost, rising as the sun pries open the soil.

Rivers swell with the memory of snow, chattering over stones worn smooth by winter. Everything is a softening, a leaning toward the first green needle of the year.