Under the Same Sky

I was hoping for spring. Instead, winter returned.

Whether I walked in snow or in the sky, it was hard to tell.

At a bus stop, I wonder what—or who—we are waiting for.

The river does not ask. It keeps moving. It knows its direction.

So much noise. And yet, so much silence.

A friend asks: How are you dealing with all that is going on in the world.

I have not yet replied. Not because there is nothing to say—but because there is too much.

Too much to hold at once.

And still, we all walk under the same sky.