Ghosts look my way

a menagerie of them

floating above the bed

at night, perhaps my father

communicating with me

from beyond the grave.

 

Ghosts look my way

in the morning when I walk

past the pond, drinking in

lilies and red-winged blackbirds,

my mind empty with the exception

of a memory of my mother.

 

Ghosts turn to look at me as I

busy myself chopping vegetables,

while painting a lily in the studio,

as I nap in the afternoon.

I recall the time my brother appeared,

a smoky sheet of glass.