The Sun's Heavy Lean

The sun leans heavy against the glass, no longer a pale ghost of December but a warm hand pressing the dust motes into golden suspension.

The eaves begin their rhythmic weeping, a slow percussion on the softening soil. Under the crust of white, a secret pulse stirs the roots of the dormant willow.

Iron gates, once frozen shut by breath, now yield with a rusted, singing sigh. The air smells of wet stone and ancient moss, unfolding like a letter kept too long.

Shadows stretch, long-limbed and blue, tracing the map of a world reborn. We walk where the ice is thin and brittle, listening for the music of the crack.