A Handful of Ghosts

 

Silk-white gloves,

Celestial fingers,

Caressing the spirit to heal and disinfect,

Like mother would.

 

Open, caring,

Not closed in anger,

Reaching through the barriers to touch and calm,

Like mother would.

 

I’ve got a Handful of Ghosts,

A flock of Heavenly Hosts,

And the world just still isn’t right,

‘thout you.

Reviews

[Salvatore Buttaci]

Oh, what an image there! A handful of ghosts! And a tremendously strong closing line to bring the reader to the reality of the metaphor: love slipped through the poet's fingers, so much air, so little but memory left of a love that should have moved mountains. I love it!

Sal