All these things
fragments, fragments
intended offerings
folded tight in shadow.
Fear:
the quiet keeper
locking gifts behind glass,
beneath the weight
of yesterday’s suitcases,
buried under invisible dust,
growing
slow
a sediment of silence.
Once,
they were light
sparks in a fresh dawn,
a whisper of wings.
Now
ghosts in attic rooms,
faint echoes
fading into the distance
where memory
gives way to forgetting.
Hidden,
unseen,
unspoken
the gifts sleep.