Light through the windows, and yet
somehow the room is still dark.
Ghosts live here.
They are beautiful, these ghosts,
dripping in silk and satin and promises
made and promises kept.
About this poem
We often talk of memories as ghosts, and what we really mean is loss, sadness, even horror. But ghosts can be beautiful as well, living creatures of the here and now that have stayed with you, live with you, love with you.
Inspired by a picture of my wife that came across my feed this morning.
The picture was taken at Wilson Castle in Proctor, VT.