Dust Settles

The boxes, heavy, then hollow,

stacked against the wall.

The scent of old newspapers

almost a funeral pall.

Twenty years and the same light

sweeps across the floor.

I thought I'd left it all

behind the closing door.

But here, in tissue, brittle,

dried flowers, brown and thin,

a corsage I recall,

its petals now just skin.

It cracks when I touch it,

the small white ribbons fray.

Like a forgotten promise,

just giving way.