The Hour Before
Book I
There is an hour before the dawn
when the house remembers everyone
who ever slept here.
The floorboards creak with old devotion,
the curtains sway without a wind,
and somewhere in the hallway
a candle flickers
though no one lit it.
I have learned to love
this hour above all others—
when memory is not a wound
but a room you can sit in,
quietly, with your shoes off,
and your heart still warm.