She is not embedded in this room, but she still lives here br Her reflections gathering back upon the wood like happy birds, br Flocking to a bird meeting in some tree; and though no tales are told br Histories are entrenched in scars and tack holes, br A strange dullness upon the painted wall, here and there br That to others could mean nothing at all- and yet they possess weight br And substance, a dimensionality in the memories they give birth to. br br We are all darkness and light, intermixed br Shaken into days of metered sun and random shade; br Stirred up- until the bubbles rise, now newly born- br That our own selves made. br br Books can define even a person who seems invisible within themselves, br And papers and journals reveal quirks of handwriting and thought process; br And though the small child itself is no longer represented here br With toys and artifacts; yet the child's ghost lingers here, most of all, br Whiling away a never-ending childhood's grace, in the strange way br Of all humans, to never really grow up, but only to enclose their youth br With adult sentiments and cares, perhaps never noticing how the eyes br May still sometimes look upon the world with the purity of innocence- br Only within the nest, that room once was. br br We are all mirrors, shining our selves br Onto the mirrors of others; and when we reflect br It casts a new light never seen, br On what we were- and are to be.