The room dims. The sun, who had finally
come out, hidden again by a last thick cloud
driven by. The air goes still, yet the periwinkle
porch swing sways. In the faint light,
I feel a chill— another ghost floating through?
It’s something I think about, from time
to time, in this nearly airtight box,
consider who lived upon this land before—
before cow pastures. Think of those
who roamed freely here. Before they could not.
No enclosed boxes then, all out in open air.
Before we over warmed the Earth.
Was the large pond in the middle of the cornfield
across the way filled with trout? Did those here
welcome the clouds on a hot June day?
Recite poetry? What tree roots had hold
before most were chopped down?
The wind whistles through the leaves
of the crabapple tree, and the swing swings
higher. Perhaps this ghost does not see me
or this now. Or simply wishes to settle in
and sway, drifting in her death state,
remembering a stillness I could never know.