Threshold Light

The world pauses between its old skin and new growth. Frost still jewels the grass at dawn, but the air tastes of unfurling, of things that will not stay still.

I stand in the doorway of spring, neither in nor out, watching light leak gold across the threshold. The birds have forgotten their winter silence.

Yesterday's shadows grow thin. They scatter like smoke under the weight of longer hours, of a sun that lingers on the edge of everything.

There is something tender in this waiting— this not-yet, this almost— when the world is soft enough to hold both the cold we are leaving and the warmth we cannot yet trust.