Christina, I have revised this thing again. I am sick of it by now. Here is
the latest.
Old Sins
Wearing tattered shrouds,
they slide into the graveyard of my dreams.
Grass moves where they move,
and Spanish moss sways.
You can't outlive us, they say.
We never die. And from the cavern
of memory they rise with false faces
and painted smiles. Once I knew them well,
held their hands, for they were friends.
Now, old sins glide through empty rooms,
smell of decay. Where little is left--a chair,
a candle stub-- they drift, elemental as pain,
to touch the rockers upon the porch
or move the swing with its rusty chains.
When fall chills the heart with needles of rain,
they stay, settling like dust,
stolid as old desires, faded, gray,
until spring mists the hills with green
and pear trees spread white sails.
With waterfall voices, doves return.
Light shifts upon the lawn.
No one sees them go;
the wrought-iron gate swings close.
Sue Scalf
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