My world is muted, not colorless as many mourners report.
All brown and grey and silky white. Gentle colors.

There are patterns and intricacies visible only in winter, when life has seemingly stopped.

There are reflections of life in the muddy water and tiny buds despite the thorns.

I am walking through a long, bare tunnel. The cold air echoes in the emptiness.
As I emerge from the darkness, a surprised robin surprises me.
He’s here early.
He tilts his head towards me, all attention as if I’m a worm underground, which he decides I am not.
He flits from branch to branch before flying off, beckoning me to follow his melodious call of spring.

—

Melanie Lynn Griffin is an environmental communications specialist and a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Sierra magazine, AARP Bulletin, WildEarth Journal, Grist.com, and elsewhere. Ms. Griffin studied at the University of Maryland, Cathedral College, and Wesley Seminary, and she holds a Masters in Writing from Johns Hopkins University. Her blog Writing with Spirit can be found at melanielynngriffin.wordpress.com.