The Season of Almost

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The air carries a quiet hesitation. It is neither warm nor cold, holding onto the last traces of winter while hinting at something new. A jacket feels unnecessary, yet the moment bare skin meets the wind, doubt creeps in.

The ground remains damp, holding onto the memory of last week’s rain. The trees stand bare with their branches reaching toward the sky. Their stillness is not hesitation but patience. They do not resist the cold or grieve for their fallen leaves.

Instead, they stand firm, embracing the natural rhythm of the seasons and trusting in the promise of what is yet to come. The wind drifts through the branches whispering soft promises of renewal. Their strength is in waiting. Beneath the surface, change is already beginning.

Every year, there is a moment when winter loosens its hold but does not fully let go. Spring lingers at the edges, appearing in the sun’s extended path across the sky and the first hint of warmth in the air. Change comes not all at once but gradually, like the trees, like the seasons themselves.

This shift is captured in Almost Spring.

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Almost Spring

By Kerry Ann Wiley

The trees don’t rush this year.
Their buds stay small, unsure,
like they remember last April—
the frost that came too late,
the blooms that never made it through.

The sky is softer, not bright,
just a quiet kind of blue.
Grass wakes up in slow motion,
more brown than green,
more memory than promise.

Still, something stirs beneath it all—
not bold, not certain,
but enough.
A hint of warmth in the air,
a whisper of color waiting to rise.

Some things return quietly,
not with fanfare, but with patience—
the slow reach of roots,
the hesitant unfolding of petals,
the way the light lingers just a little longer.

Change comes in small ways,
a branch bending toward the sun,
a petal loosening its hold,
the ground shifting just enough
to make room for something new.

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Not every shift is immediate or obvious. Some changes unfold in the space between what was and what will be. Even when movement feels invisible, something is still happening beneath the surface.

Life keeps moving. The seasons evolve naturally. The trees may remember last April’s frost, yet they still reach for the light. The grass might stir slowly, but it will turn green. There is a comfort in knowing that time moves everything forward, even when the next step is uncertain.

Milestones mark progress, yet life is defined by its quiet moments. Like the roots that anchor a flower before it blooms, these subtle episodes lay the groundwork for steady growth.

Endings and beginnings seldom have clear boundaries. Patience is more than waiting. It is an intentional act of making space for the uncertain and trusting in what is still emerging. The trees understand this, and nature reflects the same truth. Even when movement goes unseen, growth persists.

In the space between goodbye and what’s next, nature softly reclaims its rhythm. A quiet shift carries its promise. Change beckons, inviting a new beginning.