Verses by @NocturneRaven

The clock in the hall coughs once and forgets
what it meant to say. I have learned to keep
your coat on its hook, to let the rain
write its slow will across the glass
and not answer.

Grief is not the flood. It is the drip
behind the plaster, the copper coin
gone green in the pocket of a Sunday suit,
the hinge that complains when the wind
tries the gate. Small accounts. I settle them
each night with a candle stub and a thumb
worn smooth from counting.

You would have laughed—
that laugh like a dropped key—
to see me argue with the kettle,
to hear me bargain with the frost
that feathers the sill. The kettle wins.

In the cemetery the iron angels
keep their rust, their chipped wings,
their patience. They do not offer
consolation. They only stand,
as I stand, in the long grass,
listening for a footstep
that knows the way home
and takes it.