Our Sycamore is 90 years old, but comforts us Dark shadows appear In odd places Winter lingers in Unfinished space Where the area is damp, glib Raw and slippery The dining room sits and waits For someone Walls are painted a different color I am in the wrong place I stand Waiting for nothing This house, too still Quietly mourns the loss I can't see the light I canβt communicate I can't walk on water I can see but I can't feel I lock the door behind me And share nothing, And wait here in this dark shadow Awkward and powerful.