From a worn chair in a dim, dusty room,
Old ears listen for a familiar tread:
The fast, heavy clicks of heels,
Focused and fast in a no-nonsense drive
From home to work and back again.
But, no. A breath. That tread was from then.
Tired eyes close. Then wait for the beat,
The pitter-patter of dainty feet that
Jump and flutter down the stairs
To head to school or outside to play.
No. Those feet grew. They moved away.
A sigh. A breath. A weary shake.
And the head turns for a slower step,
Careful and reliable in sturdy shoes,
Always there, each year, each hour and day.
And so in the silence the old ears stay.