a dream house with friendly ghosts

she would often pause while walking past her favorite house,
facing the salt sprayed harbor--
receiving tiny floods after a heavy rain


she never saw anyone leave or enter the home--
how it always appeared spanking clean, with a fresh
cloud white paint, and charming gingerbread details

no chance of it being haunted
still... in the quiet of early morning,
she thought she heard it breathing,

"gaze at my beauty, but I am not on the market;
don't expect to make a deal...
please keep walking."


my ancestors return in summer to walk down the pebbled driveway

they cross the lane to feel the sand below their ghostly feet,
to plunge into the bottle green harbor,
and to swim without expending any energy

to simply allow themselves
to float lazily across the sound---
undetected by the most prayerful beach bums..

now in winter, the souls of the house could be felt skating

when the sound freezes,
the sweet elegy of heart-
beats against the north wind

chanting songs of release--
a sudden sweet freedom