Time of Silk

The memory of the stairs slides backward,
every step repeats a step that will not return,
an echo of a broken key seals the hallway.
Weaving time from threads of shattered silk,
the hours knot in voiceless pauses,
and the banister holds the breath of the days.
Each step is a page the wind refolds,
the words retreat like snow upon the steps,
the room holds the tenderness of a spent memory.
When the day folds over, the ascent renews,
a thread re-knots and begins to stream,
the memory of the stairs, woven of shattered silk, breathes.