Here’s one from my book Eden in the Rearview Mirror (Word Press)


August, but the nights
are too soon cold.

White moths spiral
translucent in the streetlight,

vanishing as if they flew
too near and into candle flame.

The way the family story goes,
they had to sell

the old Green Valley farmhouse
because one muggy night

my mother saw a ghost
walk through the bedroom door,

a man dressed all in white,
wearing a white hat,

and when she rose to lift me
from my crib, he turned

and left the way he came.
Already she knew she was leaving too,

dreaming into slag light, smoke
rising from her shoulder blades.