The scent of his cologne appears before
his ghost slides back into my space
twisting of bergamot and cypress vine finds
cracks in the window.
The ghost appears when least expected,
a text, a phone call, a post on Facebook,
a snippet of affection through regular mail,
even threads woven into pages of my poetry.  

The last time he surfaced was after a long absence,
measured by full moons with many transitions.
It took me off guard, I was not ready
for a reconciliation, the sudden shift
in the atmospheric river announced his return
trailing whiffs of cedarwood.
I hid, I made excuses, I moved,
changed my number, shut down.  

He always finds me, no cave too deep,
sipping coffee on a park bench,
browsing for books in a hidden country library,
hanging clothes between the silver poplars.
He rolls in on a cresting ocean wave,
a magic carpet of satins and silks,
powers in like a snowsquall blinding me,
a bolt of lightning dropping fire in its path.  

Ash falls from the sky,
I listen to the echo of the whippoorwill.  
Soothing nocturnal music
lulls me to sleep,
covered with the thick patchwork quilt
handstitched comfort embrace.
The skies clear, the Strawberry Moon,
hangs low, reminds me it’s just a dream.