Shadows whisper beneath the ash tree
where we once scattered the summer
Leaves upon the earth like third Sundays
Echoes of laughter caught in the wind,
intertwined with the song of distant trains.

The attic smelled like mothballs and rain,
a sanctuary of forgotten dolls,
Each face a past we never lived,
Eyes following the chiming clock
that never marked the right hour again.

An open window reveals
the ocean’s calligraphy, tracing
the margins of an unwritten story
where we chased dreams on paper boats,
sailing through puddles in the dusk.

Shadows loom; touch them softly
and weave a story tangled in
your grandmother's silk threads.
Or find solace here: a whisper,
there: a fingerprint.