That house on the right, the one that’s smaller,
It has a clear view from there, or from here.

With all the windows shut,
At night, the candle moves with the breeze,
But for the breeze outside.

It’s as if this old house is still breathing,
The thick of the night,
And the vision of someone still, but there.

A beautiful silver tarnished mirror on the table,
Still sits there, with only the beautiful memories.

©2007, Ron Globe