Even with Samhain closing in,
there’s no fog or mist
that divides the living and the dead.
I’m already a ghost –
a brief blur you might remember.
No halo around the hunter’s moon
where clouds hover then shrug
and move on. Maples and oaks shuffle
what’s left of their leathered leaves,
bear the crow as he balances
between midnight and morning.
2024-01-01