Time pools in corners: silver tarnished black,

Dust settles soft on objects stacked,

The doorbell chimes its sporadic song,

While gilt-framed mirrors remember wrong.

The little brocanteuse remains silent as prayer,

An antique herself in a wooden chair.

A curious keeper of lost afternoons,

Of other people's faded heirlooms.

History's fragments, labeled with care:

Victorian lace and Meissen rare,

Dutch Golden shadows in amber light,

Georgian silver gleaming bright.

Through the doorway, years dissolve and slide,

Where centuries refuse to divide.

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