Mrs. Morris, your chair still rocks by the window,
threadbare velvet humming the tune you hummed.
I keep your Thursday voicemails in a jam jar—
when the moon is a silver coin I twist the lid,
let your laugh jingle out across the empty kitchen.
The garden grows only your name in every row,
soft as thyme, stubborn as mint.
I speak to the walls, they answer in your accent;
I breathe, and the room exhales with you.