Between the Bells

April folds into May— a hinge between green and greener, the air tastes of both frost and rain, uncertain which season owns these hours.

Petals drift like scattered letters, each one a small confession the wind will carry away. Light catches in the spaces between leaves, holds them up to the sky as if to ask: enough?

In the garden, beetles trace their paths, and I trace mine— round and round the beds, looking for the exact moment bloom becomes becoming.

There is no exact moment. Just this: the slow rupture of buds, the steady green ache of growth, and me, standing still, learning how to unfold.