The flowers bloom.
Mist departs from the growing tree.
Ice softens into cool water.
The sun arrives like an orb of light
As the branches grow, piercing the day.
The trees grow from saplings.
The leaves redden like blood.
Loud sounds come slowly
As the trees sing their mournful song
When the wounds get deeper and deeper.
The small constellations
Darkening by the second
Are not looked at very much.
It isn’t the stars themselves
But the spaces in between them.