one pitter, two patters
scampering without direction.
A creak on the stairway,
melancholy resounding throughout the years.
No flying dust
even as figures dash around.
With ghostly sighs,
phantom tiptoes on threadbare carpet,
gleeful somersaults through crooked door frames.
Still, no moving dust.
The wind blows gently in a lonely manner as chimes tinkle,
voicing their mirth.
Overgrown weeds linger in a dance.
Curtains swept apart
as the playful breeze sprawls through the open window.
By the sill,
a faded photograph,
echoes of bubbling laughter from long ago.
no shadow of falling dust.