“a mysterious neighbor”

In the creak of floorboards past midnight’s bell,  
Lives a shadow next door, where the shutter blinds dwell.  
A faint glow of lamp through the frost-ribboned glass  
Hints at warm life inside—yet no faces pass.  

The roses outside, in perfect strict rows,  
Are clipped every Sunday, yet no gardener shows.  
A tabby with stripes surveys from the sill,  
But quickly retreats if you linger too still.  

Their mailbox is brimming with postcards and news,  
Uncollected for weeks, as the questions accrue.  
At dusk, sometimes footsteps tap soft on the tiles,  
And an old gramophone plays old songs for the while.  

Once, on a morning all pearled with June mist,  
A scarf on their doorknob—maroon and amethyst—  
Soft as a whisper, as marking the trace  
Of the neighbor who lives in that unvisited place.  

Yet when autumn breezes shake gold from the trees,  
And laughter next door rides the wind with the leaves,  
You sense in the hush, when the neighborhood sleeps,  
A mystery draped in the silence it keeps.

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