There they are again.
Small green insistences pushing through soil that still looks tired from winter. Late March is mostly mud and memory. Nothing grand. Nothing showy. And yet these bright threads rise as if they’ve received a private memo from the sun.
Every year I forget this part. I remember tomatoes swaggering in August. I remember the gold of October. But this quiet beginning? It slips my mind.
The shoots don’t announce themselves. They simply lean toward the light. Beneath the surface, roots have been busy all along—splitting, reaching, reorganizing in the dark. Most growth, it turns out, happens where no one is looking.
That first green of spring is almost electric. Not the deep green of summer, but something thinner, hopeful. A draft of a season not yet edited by heat or insects or time.
The air still carries winter’s edge. Frost is not entirely done with us. But the math of light has shifted, and the shoots rise anyway.
Hope sometimes looks like this—small, persistent, unreasonable.
When I wrote this blog post, I took this photo and wrote nothing. Maybe I thought I would remember the feeling.
I didn’t, exactly. But looking at these fragile spears now, I remember enough.
New life doesn’t arrive with fireworks. It comes in millimeters. In quiet courage. In the simple act of showing up again.