#2289

I am a ghost town

Built around a dried-up well

Oh how the winds cry

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#2273

I remember you in the summer:
the heady scent of fresh cut grass
wild blackberries warmed by the sun
eagles soaring high in a clear blue sky

I remember you in the fall:
the trumpet call of geese flying south
white fog tangled in evergreen trees
leaves and pine cones crunching underfoot

I remember you in the winter:
the gleam of bare branches encased in ice
wood smoke drifting on the chill wind
snowflakes falling in lazy circles

I remember you in the spring:
the chirp of baby swallows in their nests
footprints through the dewy grass
daffodil faces lifted toward the sun

#2256

these days it is not the dead I fear

(my graveyard sleeps beneath ferns and moss and so do my ghosts)

but the living, those who have not yet had the decency to perish

(so I may bury them in the soft soil and be done)

who instead blunder blindly where they like

and crush the undergrowth in their wake