Footsteps sound upstairs
where lately only ghosts have walked.
Are these the noises of closing down
of a dead woman’s apartment
or the excavation,
the process of opening it up
for a new generation to thrive
in that once well-lived space?

The noise alone
informs me too little,
but the bright sunlight
burning through grey
gives me hope
that the heavy steps above
are the voice of spring becoming,
not winter ending.

Something good is happening,
something fresh.
The old will be swept away
and in its place
something new shall soon be borne.