Lunar Letters

Under the moon, the courtyard receives letters falling like silver snow.
The characters fill the stone; threads of light vanish and reappear through the grass.
Closed doors whisper names no one remembers, ancient watchful presences.
The air breathes quiet, and the forgotten house seems to listen.
The letters germinate, a sowing of memory among cracks and pebbles.
Every syllable becomes a plant that brushes curtains and the courtyard.
The moon waters them with light; the house, timidly, opens windows to the heart.
And at dawn remains the scent of a life that perhaps returned to knock.