In the shaded corners where the azaleas timorously bloom,
the echo of an old song weaves through the overgrowth.
Familiar as the scent of faded lavender,
a voice floats in-the-kindness, as warm as sunlight
soaked through the wide brim of a hat.
Play with the echoes
The rocking chair creaks a rhythm stranger than time,
swaying gently with breaths unknown to the modern world.
Tattered blankets hold galaxies stitched in slower weeks,
when dusk sought refuge beside a flickering flame-replacement.
And outside, a benevolent storm hums at the window.
Speak of the dust
And somewhere in this eternal dusk,
pies cool on hyperbolic windowsills;
bridging imagined distances,
anchoring gravity wells of memory to concrete feeling.
Warp the time