Tiny faces peek out from the ledge
of stone walls dusty from disuse,
empty doorways and metal edges
over places where windows used
to fit. Once we belonged here, but
we lost the pages; still a plaque grows
cold against spring’s gasp, shrouded taut
amongst the weeds, until the winds blow
limbs apart, reveal lost names and story
and we close our eyes, walk into history.
Words and Coffee Writing 