This morning the air outside remained still.
I shadowed over leaves, breaking their veins
under the weight of my foot.
The space around me is silent.
A scattered bunch of dots is seen in the distance,
and they are all wearing black.
I feel like we are mourning something and,
in a way, I guess we are.
But we often find ourselves in the darkness.
Maybe that’s why spring is considered
a new beginning.
Because we spend all winter finding out
exactly what that means.