First day of spring

The first day of spring passes without incident
down the wide or narrow hallways of history.
We were huddling in the corner in a group
looking at something someone brought and held
in their hands, so we didn’t see her pass by.
I mean, I saw her out of the corner of my eye
but just as I was about to look up, you
shouted something about the thing we held,
do you remember what it even was? What were
we looking at, huddled in the hallway?
I can’t remember any more. I see us grouped
as though I were someone else, as though
I were the first day of spring passing by,
unnoticed, green eyes glittering. Did she want
us to see her? or was she minding her own business
walking down that hallway, rushing to meet
the vestiges of winter, her friends, down the hall,
barely registering our collected bodies,
which formed what seemed to her to be a single
mass, dark and brooding, ruminating on some
unknown thought of its own? Is she thinking of
us, now, the same way we’re thinking of her?
— Is this the way that history passes, darkness
in darkness, chewing through itself, ignoring
everything, especially the light in the hall?