Ghosts

Flowers bleed up
through the dirt,
colored mirrors

not done reflecting.

Old homes and lonely gardens,
not even one stick of wood left

to mark their faithful service.

A crumbled concrete step here or there,
bricks and couples of laundry line posts

left to rust away, feet first.

Random bulbed blossoms
chant old address numbers

over and over to each other

each spring and fall.

This was where you lived