The humidity a heavy coat

The humidity, a heavy coat,

makes the walls breathe, I think.

And there, above the old pine chest,

a new curl, a paper boat,

drifting from the plaster's brink.

The pattern, muted grey,

lifts from the wall, a tired peel,

revealing what was hid away.

A ghost of roses, small and neat,

a faded yellow, shy and sweet.

From decades past, a silent story,

before my time, another glory.

It makes a shadow, soft and deep,

where memories, perhaps, still sleep.

A slow undoing, this old room,

reveals a quiet, gentle bloom.