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Threshold at the Riverbend
(a reworking "the old home")

It will never be like this again —
the hallway holding its breath,
dust motes drifting in the last square of light.

Beyond the open door,
a ribbon of water bends away,
its slow hymn carrying
the names we forgot to speak aloud.

Floorboards remember
the weight of bare feet after rain,
the smell of gum‑sap and river‑reed
threading the air between rooms.

Somewhere downstream,
a song circles back on itself,
far, far away,
yet close enough to ripple the glass
left on the kitchen sill.

The house leans toward it, listening —
walls swelling with the tide,
emptiness filling
with the sound of home.

.