Threshold

Before the light breaks through, there is this holding— the breath between one moment and the next, where everything waits to be born.

The world is still sleeping but the birds already know something. They gather on wires like punctuation marks, like words about to be spoken.

In the garden, green things press upward, roots reaching through dark soil, learning the language of reaching before they ever touch the sun.

We are all standing at some edge, learning to trust the falling, learning that closure is just another kind of opening.