The letters stay inside the drawer, The ink has dried, I write no more, The garden waits behind the door, It blooms for someone not here anymore. The kettle sings at half past five, The same old song that kept us alive, I pour one cup, I don’t ask why, Some habits never learn to die. I’m learning how to walk alone, To make a home from sticks and stone, To let the winter turn to gold, And find a warmth I used to hold. The frost still clings to window glass, I trace your name, then let it pass, The seasons move, the shadows pass, I’m not the same, but I will last. The morning finds me by the stream, I wash my face, I chase a dream, The water hums a softer theme, I’m waking up, or so it seems. The light comes in through broken blinds, It touches all I left behind, I’m healing slow, I’m taking time, I’m finding peace I thought I’d never find.
