I learned today
that weathered paint has a smell.
It is earth and sun and shifts of rain
distilled to haunting. It is quiet snow.
It is the breath of those who walked between
these walls, the faded vibration of their footsteps.
It is the ghosts I travel through unknowing.
Now I lie awake, listening to the trees outside the window
as they shake with storm, flatten against the walls, scrape against the panes.
Does everything become like wind?