The Waiting Between

Between the last frost and the first warm rain, the earth holds its breath— some small thing shifts in the soil, beneath the dead leaves.

We don't see it happen, this turning, this slow opening. We only notice after, when the green has already begun, when what was brittle becomes pliant again.

The maples know something we're still learning: that holding on and letting go are not opposites, but partners in the same dance.

Each petal that falls makes room for what comes next. Each season that ends was never meant to stay.