Threshold

The last snow holds its breath against bare branches, a memory refusing its own ending— while underneath, something green insists on waking.

The earth is divided, half still sleeping in stone, half trembling with the first fever of bloom. A cardinal calls in the in-between space.

Light takes its time here, uncertain as a hand reaching through a doorway, and I stand where the cold wind still touches my face but cannot hold it.

Everything waits. Even the birds seem to hesitate between songs, between the weight of what was and the lightness of what might be.