Ghosts

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