Old Sins
Wearing tattered shrouds,
they slide into the graveyard of dreams.
Grass moves where they move,
and Spanish moss sways.
You can't outlive us, they say.
We never die. And from the dark loam
of memory they rise with false faces
and painted smiles. I know them well,
comrades once, friends.
Now, old sins whistle through empty rooms,
smell of decay. Where little is left--a chair,
a candle stub-- they remain, elemental as pain,
gently make the rockers squeak upon the porch
or move the swing with its rusty chains.
With winter's first rain, they are still there,
settled with an aching cold that chills the veins.
When spring sends mist of green upon the hills
and doves call from the rafters, they sit still,
but whisper in shadowed voices like water falls.
Only a child's laughter will break their spell
or happiness that leaps into song. . . old ones
like "Sweet, sweet Jesus" and "I'm Coming Home."
Sue Scalf
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