whispered

tiptoe carefully, there are people sleeping on the floor. the warm wooden floor smoothed by two hundred years of wear. two hundred years of bare feet scuffling through the night. the billowy white curtains recall clouds in their folds and ruffles, gently wrapping the windows that frame the cool darkness. how many people have fallen in love in this room? how many people have danced, talked, kissed? how many people have cried in this room? how many children have run their hands across the logs that make up the wall of this room? tender, young hands on the raw, rough wood. how close i can feel the past...i can feel them crowding around, warming their snow-numbed hands and feet around the stone hearth while the smell of warm drink floats in from the kitchen. their murmurings are muffled by the veil of time that shrouds the shadows that they cast on the darkened walls. and their whispers gently stir the sleeping people on the floor.