Photo Jasmine Rain Hyder
The weeds crackle their serrated edges against the wind as if they are biting the cold right back with their brown teeth. The grass, sharp-toothed as well, is sheathed in ice. Empty benches draw my imagination to thoughts of ghosts and to memories that lay in wait like hants.
Ghosts by the water
Annette Marie Hyder
Some say that
ghosts can’t feel
anything due to their incorporeal state.
But I know
that as long as there’s a skeleton left
for the ghosts to touch like a
talisman of real
they can feel — they can feel it in their bones.
When ice rattles down like teeth in a cup
being used as dice by the ghosts
when the mist comes rolling in
and when the storm of snow begins
if you are sitting on a bench and feel
a spectral coldness mixed with the real
you are no longer all alone —
a ghostly hand has clasped your own.
When the ghosts come hovering near
and whisper hauntly in your ear
when sky and hard ground blend to one
white vista overcome
with coldness one step from
don’t try being brave
it’s time to run for home.