The Threshold

Between the green and gold, the light holds its breath. Leaves don't know their color yet, the air forgets which season claims it.

I stand in the doorway of transformation, watching the world unmake itself softly— each shadow longer than yesterday, each sound more certain of its echo.

The trees are learning to let go the way old hands release a stone held since childhood. Necessary. The ground below grows patient.

Silence collects like dew on the spaces between words, on the pauses where we used to live. Everything is turning into something else.

This is the threshold where nothing settles— where we are both the leaving and the stayed, where light burns clearest before it learns the dark.