Stepping gently across the floor
it creaks, a dry and splintered sound
reflecting the dusty-smelling, silver boards
broken and opened, windows to the ground.
The walls are thinning like their yellow-painted planes,
and I know that, without feeling, no surface can be found.
Sunlight casting silhouettes through rippled window panes
onto foreign furniture I know to be my own,
bleaching out the color from the faded wooden frame
and thinning quilt, hand-pieced and ancient, sewn
by mother’s love. The scene in stillness lingered
in between, while outside, time had flown
softly by the window, as a kindly whispered word.
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