Windy Day

This morning I heard from you for the last time. And I noticed
through the silent window, wind possess the bodies of trees
and comb through the yellow hair of stripped cornfields.
I opened every window to let the wind break in and steal what it could,
or at least erase the things I could no longer carry.
It’s evening now, and the cold the day left sleeps
in the chair beside me, breathing quietly as I write.
We never see ghosts, we always feel them.

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