Threshold

The snow forgot to come this year. Instead the branches wait, bare-fingered, reaching into a sky that hasn't decided what kind of silence it will keep.

Between the falling and the ground, there is a moment stretched thin as thread— where the world holds its breath before becoming something else.

I've learned the language of these pauses: how light enters an empty room, how silence has weight, and color, how sometimes the most honest thing is what we don't say.

Spring moves beneath the earth like thought beneath a closed mouth, patient, root-deep, inevitable. We are all waiting for ourselves to arrive.