Objects that tell the story 

of the hands that touched them

of the places where they had been

of the journeys they had gone on.

The beauty of the past.

The nostalgia for voices that can not be heard anymore.

Squeaking of doors

Of chairs rocking in front of a fireplace.

Silences of candles.

The drawings of time become rust.

Time tinges the elements

Dark red color

Cortex color

Grains color

Yellow of thousand suns

It colors and fades

Adds and take away

Bring me into the past

And leave me there

Where eyes looked at eyes

Buzzes of saloons

Silences of homes 

Laces, bustiers

Shame and secrets

Escaped, died

Abandoned

Lived, torn

Consumed and discarded.

Filled, enjoyed, sweaty

Faced,  shot

Emptied, impoverished

Left, forgotten.

I can feel the fullness of the past

I can breath it

I can hear it

There is no silence now.

It is in the story

Of a woman

Who embroiders

And waits.