These ghosts are more than memory.
I saw them once or twice
when time slips sideways, ajar.
I enter the room and feel them,
feel the warmth on the arm of a chair
where his hand leaned a moment ago.
I know he left by the opposite door.
There is a slight disturbance
sketched on moving air,
as real as the solid oak table
and the light on the polished floor.
It is winter now.
The house is cold and damp.
The ghosts hang like a fine sea mist
by the dying, darkening fire.
At night he climbs the stair,
always ahead of me, here
We don’t intrude or disturb them.
We live with them side by side.
When I am gone, they’ll still be here.
I turn out the light
and walk in the dark
knowing they do the same.
The Dreaming Path 