I told my mom that spring had not come yet.
See, the trees are still bare.
You will not lie here looking out your window
at the blossoming branches.
You will not be deprived of the warm sunshine and green grass.
She looked at me with sympathy.
She was unable to speak.
She did not miss the spring but, as delicate beauty holds inside it
the fierce indifference
of forward movement,
the spring missed her.
And so do I.
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