Wraiths

On winter nights on the tallgrass prairie
whenever a new child is born
the wind blows chill
the moon holds water
and the dead rise
shimmering, insubstantial
composed of memory and smoke
they hover above the yellow plain
waiting

You can ask them questions.
What of my beloved?
When will my time come?
and if you are unfortunate
they will answer
They may ask you questions
wondering

They rustle through the grass
in search of newborn travelers
and the old who’ve lost their way
they drift to fields, farms, towns
and where you live
perhaps they are with you now
but whether they are there this moment
or the next
what is important is that you understand
that
they
are
watching


Originally published by Red Rose Review, Summer 2012