Ghost Stories

In the back yard
the heavy frost lies
exactly in the shape of
the shadow of the house,
minute by minute disappearing
as the earth spins.
Who would live in such a
frosted house of shadows?
Ghosts turned silver with age.
They come and go with
the rising of the sun,
the turning of the seasons.
In summer I think they
live in the dew at the edge
of deep woods where the
last pasture touches
the first trees.
Sometimes they slip in among
the hickories and beech,
darkening into silhouettes.
It is hard to walk in the woods
without stepping on them:
what you think is the spongy floor
of the forest is their dark bodies
lying all in one direction,
circling the trees they cling to,
always rooted somehow
wherever they choose to lie down.
All the stories are true.


"Ghost Stories"
By Grace Butcher

[via Whiskey River]

Image: "Paxon’s Tongue" by Marion on FLICKR
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