Whispers become echoes
fluttering against light
and falling,
like rain.
Staying briefly in puddles
only to soak through
to deeper levels,
Those faint words,
s ki tte ri n g
lightly over floorboards,
like a spider escaping doom,
will reverberate,
like a bell, when least expected,
and when most.
After the sounds die in the air,
and all that makes noise
is the sun creaking through its path,
golden motes hang
-suspended-
just for a intake
of breath,
time STOPs,
then
it is splintered once more,
into seconds, moments, hours...
days...
not yet.
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