Ghosts need no doors, they remember the way
with the scent of old bones clinging to the sod
when its peach picking time in Georgia
The dead—they don’t crowd me blue
it’s the living who press their palms
against the roots of the tree
Counting rings, counting breaths, counting
how long it takes for a branch to forget
the weight of a swinging body
When its peach picking time in Georgia
and the ghosts come home
whispering: you left the light on for us








Hauntingly penned, Adagio. Excellent write my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian