The Threshold

Spring holds the door ajar, winter's fingers still gripping the frame. The light tilts different today— sharper, almost uncertain, as if the sun forgot how to pour itself evenly.

Crocuses push through snow-soft earth, their purple a rumor, a question asked to the thaw. Everything waits in this strange suspension: the birds mid-migration through branches, the grass deciding whether to wake.

We are all thresholds, standing in hallways between what we were and what the world is becoming. The air tastes like possibility and rust.

Even silence has weight here, holds its breath like we do, like everything alive that knows the spring cannot stay— only pass through.