The Threshold Holds Its Breath

Morning arrives in shades of copper, leaves still holding to their burning. The world pauses, one foot raised above the threshold— not yet stepping into frost.

In the garden, the last chrysanthemum bows under invisible weight, its petals the color of letting go, of small surrenders gathering like footprints in dust.

The birds have forgotten their names, or perhaps just chosen silence. Even the wind moves with hesitation, as if the season itself unsure whether to close the door behind.

We are all holding our breath here, in this in-between, where the year shivers and nothing yet knows what it will become.