Threshold

Morning breaks on water filmed with ice, the way breath holds between exhale and silence. Light finds the cracks first— a cartography only winter knows.

You're learning the grammar of waiting: how seasons don't turn so much as slip, one foot still in the dark while the other finds warmth.

The trees have never rushed this. Their buds contain whole summers, patient as stones, patient as the slow rewriting of ourselves we call becoming.

At dusk, the sky forgets its coldness. Something small—a bird, a thought— crosses the invisible line between fear and flight.