Drift in golden longing 

Fingers out 

In the bellows of this dying state 

The sounds of bedded sobbing are 

Distant now,  

Just memory 

Filled with autumn's decay 

Where the rivers widen

goodbyes take longer

Ghosts come in many forms: 

In the  crow’s song,  the  whispered  tumbling  of leaves, 

The rasp of trees 

"Idleness is the enemy of the soul,” they say 

In blustery howls 

In frayed grace 

It’s windy after death

As if all this remembrance

needs to be swept clean 

Clarity comes

On the stillest days 

The sky a bold blue mirror 

In the ache of standing up