by Theodora Goss
Since you have gone away, I seem to see
your face in all the places that I knew
before we met. A wind blows through the birches,
stirring their leaves, the color of your eyes.
Their branches catch my hair, just as you did.
I cannot seem to get away. The stream,
running over the stones, sounds like your voice.
I feel your touch when brushing past the ferns.
And in the house itself, the empty rooms,
the piles of dusty books, the billowing curtains,
are haunted by your absence. Unkind ghost,
come back to all the places where we walked
together, to this house, the garden sleeping
beneath the sunlight. Come and haunt me properly.
(The image is Spring by Heinrich Vogeler.)