I once read that troubled spirits cannot depart. They are believed to walk the same path over and over again, wailing, screaming, seeking closure, and a release from their trauma. Steps on the flagstones, screams in the well, hallways haunted by the rustle of their garments.
ghost walk blues
morning, night
she walks the perimiter
a lupine shadow, trailing
she commands him to sit, stay
at the end of the driveway
then releases him
he runs, unbridled
sleek with kinetic wolfjoy
scattering leaves in his wake
april sleet
thick as frozen buttermilk
clings to her cold, pale fingers
she laughs, swears
scattering handfuls of seeds
for the chicakdees’ breakfast
who cry out
their highest alert level
until the forms disappear
