“A free-verse 20 line poem, unrhymed, in the style of John Ashbury's early poems in "The Double Dream Of Spring. A meditation on lost friends and the passage of time.””

Afternoon finds the rooms emptied of explanation,  
a hush lengthening under the low gilt ceiling  
and the pale stripes left by sunlight  
arrayed like clues. Each chair turns subtly,  
facing new arrangements of absence.  
Is it the wind, or a gentle memory,  
stirring the papers abandoned on the desk?  
These days understand little,  
encased in the amber hush between phone calls.

Fingers trace the lattice of remembered laughter,  
the hourglasses spilled and righted  
on the backs of invitations never sent.  
One friend once spoke in riddles of spring,  
his voice weaving like the hem of a curtain  
lifted by the uncertain breeze—  
never the same twice, sliding away,  
sly footfalls soft on childhood stairs.

The windows now keep secrets the walls cannot hold.  
Grief passes through, patient as morning light,  
brushing the armchair where you once waited.  
Outside, the ivy thickens unpredictably.

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