Empty Hollow

The storm passed
over a week ago
in this empty hollow.
The brush
is still scattered
untouched
for no eyes to see.
A stillness
lies at the end
of each ray
of sunlight;
the silence
is deafening.
A creaking door
footsteps
through the ceiling
the coffeepot dripping
all classic whispers
in how you define me;
broken down to
echoes and ghosts
that I chase
in the empty hollow.
What I could have said
or should have done,
fantasies, only
to reawaken the past.
The garden,
that cast beauty,
to as far
as the eye
could see,
has now vanished.
It’s image
haunts the shadows
in my eyes;
I search
again and again
for the caretaker
of this empty hollow.