Small Ghost Poem

Say it's the leaves, the way they rustle.
Say it's a shadow, the scraping of a stick.
Childhood friends, dead and buried—

they're out there now, small ghosts
who never knew when enough was enough.
One who ran into a car, one who tripped

on a stone and fell on a stick that poked
through his heart. Lost and forgotten,
they've gone into the world to become

the snap of a branch, the skittering
of leaves. What are they whispering?
It's late and it's cold. They want to come in.

-- Lawrence Raab