`

I walk from room to room
and try to catch a glimpse of you,
but all that I could see,
are muted shadows playing tag.

Sunlight catches visions
of days now stored in memory
and with your recent passing,
you climbed upon the misty crag.

The kitchen tap still leaks,
we've fixed that oft and time again;
your trusty stove still works,
those smells and tastes still fresh in mind.

The bed is fresh and made,
your dresser's bottle-pageant gleams;
what looks to be amiss --
your faithful clock now needs a wind.

The chair is set in place
as if in wait for your arrival;
a lone book gathers dust
on a table by those French doors.

The phone stands in vigil
to receive voices from far away;
whose soles had once traversed
and kissed these polished parquet floors.
 

`

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