The frost unclenches,
a fist of winter softened
by the first gold thread
of morning—light spills
like sap through the veins
of the maple, tender
and alive.

Beneath the stone’s
cold weight, a tremor—
not of earth, but of breath
unfurling, a green shoot
splitting the dark.
The sparrow knows it,
tilting her beak to sing
what the wind already hums:
He is not here.

The garden quivers,
petals unscrolling
from their tight tombs,
and I, barefoot
on this damp soil,
feel the pulse
of a world remade—
not by my hands,
but His rising.