The rustle of leaves on a cold day,
The air heavy with blue winter-light.
The moon dancing on tree branches,
Reflected in the darkness of the lake-night.
The heavy sigh of an old house,
Settling, settling, heavy with life.
The light plays down the passageway,
Sliding over the window-sill,
Trailing white light through a crack in the curtain,
Slinking through a slit in the window-shade.
And I think: Someday, she’ll be gone.
When that time comes,
The light and the window-sill, the curtain and the passageway
Will all remain.
And I’ll stay, for a little while..