The morning fog
paints the forest hillside
an ashen shade of pale
dawn shadows
arising — stumbling
through the dark,
disappearing
like some kind
of disappointment
drifting in the memory
of a forgotten dream

a sigh settles
in a fragile breath
upon the windowpane
then drools down
upon the sill
like gathered dust
on an empty
picture frame

a sudden gust
of loneliness brings
a reawakening shiver
whispering silently
as an old violin
without a bow,
tuned to a forlorn
  hidden ache —
in the quiet darkness
of your memories


Jesse Stillwater