Archive of Thaw

In the museum of winter, glass holds a quiet tide, labels in frost, the air smelling of iron and pine, and I lift a key that once was a river, its teeth cold with the grammar of ice.

Now the thaw arrives like a whispered overture, rooflines unbutton, gutters spill their thin applause, sparrows rehearse the light in the alley, and the old snow folds itself into a letter.

I walk the shore of a city that is learning to exhale, puddles pocket the sky, each one a small ledger, buses pass with their ribbed sighs of steam, and my boots read the braille of softening streets.

By dusk, the day is a loaf torn open, warm crust and the ache of salt on my hands, the tide advances, misplacing the boundaries, and I keep what drifts toward me: a bright, melting name.