When the wife is gone
The patio sits vacant
Covered in leaves
Whispering stories
Of laughter and family
As the wind rustles beneath

There’s creaking through the walls
Like old shoulders sighing
Stretching, bowing through the eaves
Bending, exhaling
These old walls
Waiting for relief

The dust sits calmly
Not a finger to touch or disturb
The dust’s fine sheath
Across the table where we’d sit
Laughing sharing our tea

Death is a cold monster
That replaces a soul with leaves
And gives no remembrance
But to let them rustle in the breeze