I Am the Quickening
I am the hush before the thaw.
I am the ember buried in the ash, waiting for breath to awaken it.

I am the first silver thread of dawn stretching across a winter sky,
The trembling bud curled tight before the great unfurling.

I am the whisper of roots stirring in the dark,
The slow, insistent push of green against stone.
I am the river breaking its ice-bound chains,
The drop of thawed snow slipping toward the waiting earth.

I am the spark caught in the blacksmith’s forge,
The word forming on the poet’s tongue before it takes flight.
I am the pulse in the midwife’s hands,
The sigh of the mother wolf as she turns toward the warmth of new life.

I am the fire that does not consume but transforms.
I am the wellspring that does not run dry.
I am the breath before the first cry,
The light returning,
The world waking.

Give me the frozen field, and I will weave it into spring.
Give me the silent tongue, and I will call forth song.
Give me the dream half-formed, and I will shape it into fire.

I am the forge.
I am the flame.
I am the threshold.
I am becoming.