There is a hidden meadow deep in the forest.
It is a secret place where some weary ghosts go
who want to forget their sad time in human form,
want to forget how the humans poisoned each other,
want to rest and let the old trees whisper little prayers
to them, and the grass grow up all around their heads,
and the fragrant wildflowers nestle in their open wounds
and pour their spirit grace into them, and because sleep
is the best way to heal the heart, they will lie down there,
they will sleep and they will dream, and only awaken
when the gentle rains drip moisture’s blessings down
through the vines, from one leaf to the next,
mercifully washing their soul eyes clear.
Although I am here, I will also be there.
I will be very quiet, and just nod my head
as they wander into the clearing, luminous
in their ghostly vestments, and I will sit and make
words and phrases for later, when poetry is needed
once again, and the wild gods re-appear in the forms
of song and wine, and drunken toasts around the fire.
I will stand up then, and although I would rather be
with you, and the blankets thrown down while we
turn together into the wordless ecstasy, I will still
stand and speak the old lines I had written once
in the time of ghosts, and tears will spring
from my eyes, and you will just smile,