Hi, Sue, a strangely dismal piece. That's not a complaint but more an
observation on the pitch of the poem. I am possessed of the same dismal
visitations sometimes , fortunately not too often. A good read for which
thanks.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Sue Scalf" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Friday, June 20, 2003 12:27 AM
Subject: New: Spirits (repost)
> Spirits
>
>
> Wearing their tattered shrouds
> they slide into the graveyard of my dreams.
> The grass moves where they walk
> and Spanish moss sways.
> You can't outlive us, I hear them say.
> We never die. And from the dark loam
> of memory they rise with false faces
> and painted smiles. I know them well.
> They know me. Once we were comrades.
> Now, old sins whistle through empty rooms,
> smell of decay. Where little is left--a chair,
> a candle stub-- they remain, elemental as pain
> or take their seats to rock upon the porch
> or move the swing with its rusty chains.
>
> Sue Scalf
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