The drawer remembers nothing of the hand.
Its mouth holds space for what arrives.
Outside, the rain rehearses on the glass,
then leaves its letters on the sill.
A paper boat has wandered from the stream.
We lift it without changing any fold.
The pencilled name is blurred but still its own;
no brighter ink can give it back its shore.
So set a lamp beside the waiting shelf.
Let every returning thing come home.
The crooked key belongs beside the lock,
not somewhere grand where no one knows the door.
A bell may ring before the train appears.
The empty platform does not call that song.
We count the wheels only when wheels arrive,
and leave a space where silence has been long.
Now rain gives way to a star.
The boat is dry; the stream is moving still.
A thumb smooths nothing that should stay.
The name survives the weather and the will.
No ribbon, no announcement in the square:
just paper finding wood beneath the light.
The shelf grows quiet, holding what is there,
and keeps the missing place throughout the night.
Tomorrow brings no promise but a path,
and careful hands may walk its length again.
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