Spirit Writer
I chew wild ginger root when insects drone,
When summer’s at its fiercest and its best.
I feel the heat in every vein and bone.
I feel the summer pounding at my breast.
I watch its glory setting in the west.
I get the chalk and settle down to wait
for one to come in friendship or in jest.
I will no one to come consumed with hate.
I will someone to write upon this slate.
Some nights I wait for hours, even nap.
On some the spirit visits don’t abate.
What pleasure when I hear a ghostly rap
and words are formed by one who is long dead!
What wonder when they echo in my head!
Published in Doppelgänger magazine
