A fan sits silent on the hearth
Sunlight peeks through blinds
Dust motes hover in the air
Photos on a shelf look down
The carpet, now feeling old
With traces of red wine stain
Faint echoes of a good living
Now the house feels empty
Despite the old man resting
Breathing slowly in his chair
So quiet and contemplative
It’s now almost a year alone
No longer hearing that voice
So soft, yet quietly insistent
Reminding him of jobs to do
Nor seeing that smile again
And this is yet another day