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Abigail Jude

by Maria Kintner

My feet boldly trespass,
disturbing blades of warm
grass from a lazy day in the sun.
It is just twilight,
burning low to the mountains,
the big star is saying, sleep.

The moon is watching.

My wrist is weighted by
a sweaty camera strap,
and comfort is a sound of
traffic, from a time-lapsed
freeway. Twinkles,
bright, burning gas, peeking through
periwinkle blue.

I should not be here.

But, oh the suffocation
of silence here, between
marker and rectangle patch.
Older, faded ribbons catch
ice cold breezes, as invisible fingers
caress. My eyes are ears, listening
for invisible vibrations

Beyond the open space,
trees encircle in quiet
secrets. Headstones, crowned
by stone and rock, and triangles
make Sacred Stars.

Abigail Jude

It is a vacuum of memories
and dried tears. Roots are
replanted here, with room for
younger faces, imprinted forever
on concrete beneath. Brother,

Already watching, shimmering

Disturbed, feathers rush
in fever; movement startles.
Stillness is suddenly un-still,
the trees, holding an invisible breath.

She was a dancer,
a singer, a dandy humdinger,
The dainty aunt of Lily-Rose,
lived to be 93...

Leaves glow in red sunsets,
the symphony of locusts has
succombed to existance not so
unnatural here. I cannot flee.

She looks up at me...

Headlights play tricks in
my line of sight. Shadows have
returned from silhouette, to
rustling branches; long and
lazy in the dry, indian summer

You really shouldn't be here...

And the words linger, filtered
through the harsh beam of a Maglite.
Steadfast fingers hold it directly,
his strides are steep and

We close at dusk, Miss...
and offers a thick, gentle hand.
He is kind to offer a swift ride
between this dimension and my
vehicle. I am laggard in obligation.

Toot toot tootsie...goodbye...

I cannot help but peek over,
and gaze upon the velvet green,
while darkness is taking possesion
over pearlescent remnants, fading
in the cool light of the moon.

...and she is sitting, gazing from
the cocoon of shade and foilage,
dancin' feet tucked under florid frock,
ragtime music in her shimmering wake.


Author's Note: This is old - from about 13 years ago. I wrote it about the one time I thought I saw a ghost in a cemetary.

Posted on 04/07/2016
Copyright © 2024 Maria Kintner

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