Seepage

I moved the oak shelf to find where it went,

that scrap of a bill for the money I spent.

But the wall had been busy, a slow-moving tide,

with a secret it didn’t quite manage to hide.

A bloom of pale yellow, a map of the rain,

a ring for each season of ignoring the stain.

The plaster is flaking, a fine, gritty sand,

a ruin that’s finally out of my hand.