Covenant.

A chair,
made to move
on wooden floors.

Its arms worn
by years of holding,
the grain smoothed
where weight once lingered.

Morning had often found it,
light drawn long
across lines in the floor,
the faint ache of aging bones.

Now it stands
where dust has learned the room,
the windows long kept still,
the air holding its breath.

A flame,
small and insistent,
finds the dark.
It touches the wood
and moves on.
Nothing calls attention.
Nothing explains.

Later,
the glass is clear again.
The house opens its eye.
Air moves, dust stirs.
Light enters
as was always intended.

Someone pauses there.
The floor remembers.
The weight is received.

The chair moves.