A Sentence on Its Way to Morning

Seoul's morning quietly covers over yesterday. A sentence I couldn't erase last night lingers somewhere in the morning air, looking like me. The morning light enters the window at an angle still too cool to call spring. Something I said to a colleague in yesterday's meeting had stayed with me a little. On the subway to work I turned on my phone, wrote a message once, and deleted it. It occurred to me that starting a morning means walking alongside what hasn't yet been finished. My mother sent a photo of the flowerpot on her windowsill. A single white flower had bloomed, with no caption. It was simply spring. I looked at the photo for a long while and then stepped outside. That sentence I couldn't erase quietly followed me out.