The house is now quiet,
  the children have gone

My beard they’ve left ruffled,
  as memories grow long

With trains and dolls scattered
  where last they played

Their love remains buried
  inside of the maze

The cupola harkens
  a last candle there burns

As the attic sits waiting
  for the toys to return

The old house is silent
  but deep from within

Their laughter still hides
  —and my searching begins

(Thanksgiving: November, 2016)