The candle wick
died in the
gusts, as
across the thresholds
passed shadows.
A dark spot on
the floor, these
long castings
without shapes.
They are shadows
without owners,
no one claiming
them from the lost
and found.
They tread heavy
across the wooden boards,
hewn rough and grey.
Standing in boots
and sighing in
my kitchen.
I offer them tea,
and seat by the window.
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