Between the Thaw

Ice holds the branch tips white, while buds beneath insist on color— green pressing against crystal in the half-light.

The sun arrives as rumor, uncertain if it stays, and everything balances here in this moment: the season that cannot choose, the tree that refuses to sleep.

I hear it in the silence— what breaks first, the frost or the bloom? Both know the answer. Neither will speak.

By evening, a single drop falls. By morning, the world has moved on, leaving only the memory of being caught between, where nothing yet is lost and nothing yet is won.