How Shadows Grow

This is how shadows grow,

with the sunlight through the window,

layered across the mint green carpet

in little strips of silk ribbon

waiting to be shaken out and hung

for a Christmas celebration or birthday party

or merely stuffed into a shoebox

with other gentle bits of fabric,

purples and beiges and floral prints

that will only be used for the planning of quilts and blouses,

but never their making, and will only be found

after the funeral and estate sale and thrown away

by a daughter in a navy pantsuit

or a swarthy box-mover in green pants,

who only has a small hint of hesitation in the eyes

and maybe around the mouth too,

but nowhere else.

 

These stripes of sun,

like quilts and Christmas celebrations and ribbons,

are forgotten, their smooth warmth gone

in time and through time and with time,

until all old ribbons spill out in the dirt

among the pull tabs and soda cans

and only shadows stretch out on the carpet.

Author's Note

How "quiet" and subtle is the poem to you?
What kind of nostalgia, if any, is evoked by the poem?
How well does the poem flow in both images and rhythm?