Threshold

Between the thaw and bloom, the earth wakes reluctant— frost still whispers in the shadowed corners while light pushes deeper into the afternoon.

The birds return uncertain, their calls tentative as questions. Everything is half-remembered, half-forgotten, a room mid-renovation.

I stand in this stalled moment where nothing is quite born, nothing yet abandoned. The old skin hasn't fallen away, the new one hasn't hardened.

Spring is not a beginning. It is a threshold. A holding of breath. This is where I live now— in the slow turning, the patient dissolution, the sweet vertigo of becoming.