The Unclenching

Frost releases its quiet grip on the blackened stems of last year’s ruin, a slow surrender in the morning chill where breath still hangs like woodsmoke before dissolving into pale light.

Beneath the matted armor of dead leaves a stirring begins, blind and insistent. Green threads push upward through the cold soil, frail conquerors defying the hard earth, seeking the hesitant warmth of a distant sun.

The creek, long silenced by a glass lid, murmurs again over smooth stones. It carries away the memory of stillness, a rushing urgency that speaks of thaw, of waking, of the inevitable return.