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.