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| Plantation Ghost House |
A Ghost at Home
James Hart
I have read my memory’s dark book
until the sentences contain a road
leading always to a singular oak
in the yard where a white house stood.
I remember the house under the moon
and the tree writing shadows on its side,
indelible language that was only mine,
phrases poised in a dreamless mood.
Such nights speak without flesh or bone,
syllables of silence like endless rhyme
fashioning one poem’s singular line
recalling my soul in a familiar home.
Now I remember how I learned to live
and found my way to things undone—
by trailing shadows and learning to love
one whispered word and its silent twin.
James Hart
I have read my memory’s dark book
until the sentences contain a road
leading always to a singular oak
in the yard where a white house stood.
I remember the house under the moon
and the tree writing shadows on its side,
indelible language that was only mine,
phrases poised in a dreamless mood.
Such nights speak without flesh or bone,
syllables of silence like endless rhyme
fashioning one poem’s singular line
recalling my soul in a familiar home.
Now I remember how I learned to live
and found my way to things undone—
by trailing shadows and learning to love
one whispered word and its silent twin.
(Poem from an unpublished manuscript
entitled In the Countryside of the Dead)
Photo Source: http://dogwoodsandcrawdads.tumblr.com/
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