by elaine blodgett

The squeaking of the pail handle,
the dogs' bark
and, in the distance,
something more ominous.
The doves I have been feeding all summer
will now feed someone else.

Such a world is not mine,
but it's not quite the shooter's either.
Years pass as well as seasons
as we lurch our way to
the worlds we choose to dream.

We are but ghosts in those worlds
as the people of our spirit are ghosts before our eyes.

Meanwhile here our dreams grind each other,
and our emotional storms collide
bringing the noise of strife and hurt -
and maybe the whisper of understanding.
Then we can see the ghosts and smile

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