The Silent Trace of the Retreating Shade

The shadow, weaver of waiting, softly draws away,
no footsteps or whispers, just a silent sigh.
Upon the morning-stained wall, a border breathes,
where dark gives way to sun, without a fight.

Rereading profiles, revealing time’s old trace,
the dried petal, the dust upon the archway space.
Each inch a fragment, a fragile, passing grace,
from bright advance, a gentle, soothing pace.

It is the counterpoint to rush, a silent chime,
measuring what unseen, through woven space of time.
A gentle farewell, a transient, fading throne,
which day unravels, only to build once more alone,
a blend of leaving out, a constant, endless loan,
of becoming evermore, with no end, no tone.