by Karen Shepherd
Through open doors, a waft has found an in,
an entry point, a path to hidden rooms
abandoned years ago. The air, so stale,
holds sleeping ghosts that hang from ceiling beams
adorned with words and webs and dried bouquets.
It’s not the breeze that makes them gently sway.
A restlessness has been here, waiting. Light
was needed to be shed, to break the night,
to make them seen again. I’m forced to stay,
to hold each spirit, each poem gone astray.
My younger self redeemed through reading dreams
hung up too soon to dry. Each one so frail,
I cup them in my palms. Released from tombs
and given breath, they stretch and bloom, unpin.
Karen Shepherd lives in the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys walking in forests and listening to the rain. Her poetry and short fiction have been published in various online and print journals including most recently Ecletica Magazine, Cirque Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Songs of Eretz, Plainsong, Constellate Literary Journal, and Riddled With Arrows. Follow her at https://twitter.com/karkarneenee
(Also make sure to read Karen’s poem For Thieves and Travelers. – Elephants Never)