Season of Ghosts
by Steve Klepetar

And now it’s the season of ghosts.
Whole fields of the dead shimmer
above April grass and pale flowers

of early spring. It’s the season
of ghosts and mud, of wind high
in still leafless trees waiting for one

more warm, showery day, of unseen
buds and weather rising toward glowing
sun or tumbling back to days of cloud

and icy rain. In the morning, every ghost
has eyes bound in webs of mist, round
as swelled stone fruit. See their shadows

move, their ears, nothing but pinholes
above wavering cheeks. Nothing solid,
nothing whole. Shapes embrace and

melt, exchange fluid limbs in this dance
of two dimensions, stirred by wailing
and tears. Each sings through mouths

of steel, shrill notes shrieking before
sleepers stir in their beds, wake to signs:
gray owls shifted to sunlight and to shade.

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