cobwebs cling to chimes…rattling in a breeze on the back porch where an eastern sun peaks through the sky…a slight song is played…ghosts hum along….

and weeds grow in a garden where wild strawberries and rose petals plucked by wind lay next to them…she would never’ve allowed that…

chairs in dust…a footstool…a butter churn…an old smoker where Tom Turkey always sat at Thanksgiving’s eve…..more wine…more wood….more love…

everything looks old now….leaves strewn cross blades of yellowed grass….and I hear ghosts calling….sometimes a shout….sometimes a whisper….they’re always around…

and constantly letting me know that I won’t be….