The kettle hummed a soft low sound

The kettle hummed, a soft, low sound.

I looked up, waiting, just to see

the ceiling fan, still, deeply bound

by time. It seemed to stare at me.

Along the blade, a gentle seam

of dust, so thick, a fuzzy line.

It caught the sun, a faded dream,

a quiet, soft, neglected sign

of days I hadn't looked, or thought

to clean. Just still, collecting slow.

All that small, forgotten, caught

in one pale band, a kind of snow

that settles on the things we keep.

It hung there, grey and soft and deep.