I see ghosts in the fall I don’t see at any
other times of the year. The gone and
desires and longings appear so real
I call them by name, whisper in order
to hear their reply, feel them crossing
my heart almost for the first time except
I know their gait as they approach,
pause, leave, and I am left with a melancholia
that needs winter and a Christmas where
good-bye is echoed in Merry. I am not afraid
of ghosts but the fear of making them.
The could’ve, should’ve, didn’t, damn
that creates them, haunts me in the fallbek
hunting, where I can say, I’m sorry so
only they can hear and hope they
forgive me for creating them.
I almost say at this time of year,
Something wicked this way comes,
but for the sweet sorrow I taste on my lips.
-Byron Hoot
