The Ghost at The Door
In the sun dance of dust motes
And in the call of the dark
Not a presence, but an absence.
Soft feet scamper into the shadows
As my ears strain to catch her whisper
In the sigh of the wind.
At month’s end, when candles flutter
And lost souls ride the ether
Like apples bobbing in a bowl of water,
She will be there, patiently waiting,
But whether she seeks to come in,
Drawn by a loss still as sharp as mine,
Or whether she waits to go out,
Finally set free from human grief,
My hollowed heart has no way of knowing.
(“The Ghost at the Door” was first published in the poetry Collection “Cats and Other Myths” by J.S.Watts – Lapwing Publications, ISBN 9781907276644)