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Ethereal memories,

Simple contrivances of the mind,

Glide through the rooms.

 

Search and seek.

Listen to the whole house.

Quiet as an epitaph waiting to be told.

 

Tread softly.

Each creek and moan from the bones

Reverberate as spectacular thunder;

 

Overwhelms,

The faintest wisp of their trace,

And flee.

 

Roll through the days, years,

To find the one clue that will

Prompt them to substantiate here, now.


It’s Sunday.

It’s only me.

Alone.

 

 

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