He fills no space now in my quiet room.

Silence. A silence that I fill with ancient guilt,

my words morphing into pain, yet edited

away from anger, leaving a cold darkness

bereft of his voice, leaving a blind sorrow

censored of healing hope: a quietude.  

Outside, the sun is blown against the glass

as it would lighten spirits, yet

its gentling warmth cannot thaw

the chill of this silence, this void.

               Outside, the snowdrops:

               signs of hope.