These silent spirits frolicking
for centuries along the creek
rooted, yet reaching for more light
that only naked can I see
each time they changed their minds—
with each petticoat pooled dry
and blown away from their feet.
Drawn to their wild dance
of indecision, each fickle fantasy
grown smooth with balanced grace,
I am moved to forget the price
of being human and must join them
upon the green beneath the gray
to greet the ghosts gone-on before me.
drycrikjournal 