Silent notes of brewed coffee,
steam dense, yet strained.
hazy rays through the stained glass,
the rustling sounds,
of the morning paper.
a gaze stuck on the polished wood,
shiny and happy,
yet Immobile.
biscuit crumbs scatter the table,
a new feast for the tiny ants.
A home,
never so silent,
missing a voice of its own
the potted soil, never dry
nor the leaves dusty.
the subtle baking aroma,
the loving shouts,
and the steps of arrival,
is a now a memory,
as you ascend,
to a happy place.
