The Architecture of Quiet Grief

We build our rooms around the empty spaces,
where once were voices, laughter, familiar faces.
A corner chair where afternoon light would gleam,
now holds the fragile fabric of a dream.

There is no hammer striking down the walls;
the grief is quiet in the carpeted halls.
It rests upon the mantelshelf and clock,
and turns the deadbolt on the heavy lock.

We learn to breathe beside the missing breath,
and find a gentle grace in life and death.
The house still stands beneath the winter sky,
a monument to love that will not die.