Spring doesn’t call –
it opens.
Not with sound,
but with light.
It does not pull.
It does not push.
It lets you come.
Because you were ready all along–
even if you forgot.
What seemed dead
was only hidden.
It kept breathing
beneath the soil,
waiting
for your softness to return.
Buds don’t break –
they remember.
The sun.
The warmth.
The longing inside them
They could no longer hold.
Nothing begins.
Everything returns.
Opening is not becoming –
it is remembering home.
And now, as you breathe, my soul.
You’re not breathing air.
You’re breathing memory
of what was never gone.
