Your house is still empty.
My heart is wounded.
In the den the sofa sits where it always has.
The day melts away when I touch it.
A wild silence surrounds me,
weeps like a dirty cloud.
Your geraniums, your chrysanthemums shiver.
I bring them in from the balcony,
and all the flowers you loved.
The seasons are leaning on me.
I brew fresh tea, your favorite,
but your glass is emty
still on the table.

I listen to the foot steps
of the passing days
annoyed by even the shortest
separation.

A door is opening,
your smiling face falls
across the weary sofa
like a dried out leaf.

Your house is still empty.
Hope is bandaging its wound.