The house gets quiet at night,

The leaves fall from the oak tree outside,

Spreading themselves over the front yard.

It’s autumn, the seasons have kept changing,

Can you see it?

The food and books and plants take up space,

The silverware in the kitchen is nestled together,

Waiting in drawers,

The house is resting, sighing and groaning as it takes up space.

But it’s not the same kind of space,

The moving, talking, touching kind of space.

The laughing kind of space,

The space that has hands and lips,

The kind of space that plays guitar badly,

That sings off key on the porch.

The space that rearranges me,

The space that moves me up,

And over to this side of the bed.