Threshold

The light bends gold through half-bare branches, holding both the green that was and the gray that waits. A cardinal calls across the divide— sharp, decisive, refusing to choose.

I stand between the stone path and the wildflowers, knowing neither anchor nor direction, only the weight of unfinished things. The air tastes like breaking news, like doors opening inward.

Once, I asked the trees what it meant to shed. They offered only this: that becoming requires letting go, that empty branches know the shape of sky better than the crowded ones.

The threshold holds its breath. Tomorrow the season turns, the birds migrate, the clock moves forward into what we call spring. But now—now the world is still, negotiating with itself about who it will become.