Threshold of Spring

Frost recedes from the grass blade-thin, each thread of green a small defiance against the grey that held so long— water moves again, remembers flow.

In the soil's dark parliament, roots taste something they had forgotten: the weight of light, the pull of sky, a conversation in chemical whispers.

The birds return with their rough songs, not yet learning the summer's ease, still raw with hunger, still uncertain, but singing anyway into the half-light.

We stand at the edge of warmth, holding coats that no longer fit, unlearning the language of waiting, speaking words we hadn't rehearsed.