ghost

she cries into her hands in the softly lit room...

she is the reason children still tell ghost stories...

i can hear it,

i can see it coming down the hall...

draped in white, she sings through tears,

music coming from her

like the song of a thousand strings...

she cries before the cross,

lays herself down,

a river to make glad the city of the Most High.

sweet lady, what grieves thee?

dear lady, what sorrow...

she must have been real at one time

the way her weeping catches in her throat--

fighting herself, casting off demons that plague her memory long--

sweet lady, who are you?

dear lady, what beauty...

and tragedy makes sweeter still the ashen frame,

a pain that prods the past and future dame,

still very much alive,

so very much alive...

she is graceful but not liquid movement,

not luminous but pure and clean,

and now before my face, her presence

is all grace has ever been.

i am cautious

as though treading on the ice of Spring,

refined, exhausted,

weak to the warmth of April.

this she cannot flee.

i am afraid that much she cannot flee.

sweet lady, where are you?

dear lady, what dream...