Lingering

Elmae Passineau

The house is a hundred years old
Shadows of ghosts hover in the attic,
  the real ones having long since moved on
  to swankier accommodations
and in the cellar
  no tiled and planked space, this,
  but stone walls that sweat when it rains
  two feet thick and the shadows linger still
Glimmering sunshine through dusty windows
  and whirring winds
  blind them and they howl
  but only a whisper is heard
  in great grandmother's rose sachet
  in notches on the wooden rafters
  in pipes sighing within the walls
They know the mewling of newborns
  the giggles of schoolgirls
  the wailing of widows
  the purr of death
At the drafty intersection of chimney and stairs,
  a pocket of irreverent shadows
  grumble moodily
  shivering and aimless
  without their solid others

 
 
Elmae Passineau

Elmae Passineau

Elmae Passineau, Weston, finds poems in memories, readings, photos, dreams, and daily activities and tries to capture them in words.  Sometimes, she does.