Ghosts

Not exactly. Something like breath on your cheek
or an aftertaste of summer, years ago; one
two metallic notes with the cadence of a name;
silverfish throwing your reflection off a beat.
Or a peony petal blown onto your path.

I don’t think so. The children know.
They breath ghosts into January
that stand for the split second
it takes to take us in, and then they’re off
as though released, like figments of the air.

Vona Groake

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