Memory's sadness lies unchanged

the whispered sound

of disarranged echoes

left in an empty room.

Almost forgotten, the moody

shadows shape ghostly suggestions

from the filtered light falling

through the tree,

groping through the window,

and spilling reluctantly on the floor.

I remember footsteps

tracing burbled laughter

in a breathing room.

Now there is no sound,

just the deafening press of dust

and perhaps the faint scratching

skitter of a mouse.