There in shadowed corners of the house
Wait my little crowd of sorrows.
I see them every day, waiting all alone.
They seldom venture forth
When light of day is strong.
Yet they know a place where they belong.
Sometimes at night they find their voice,
Approach the bed on silent feet.
I ask them what they need—
Offer prayer on their behalf.
If allowed, they’ll hide under old comforter
And wait wrapped down by my feet.
Though I seldom offer tea,
I go easy on their grief—
Listen kindly to their tales,
Speak softly to complaints or wails.
Eventually they always tire,
Return to corners where they sleep.