Silver Streams Issue 3 - Page 4

To Ghosts

Always in the here-dark,

built of designed absent light,

I look around garage bones

to play with, your soul traces

living in all the things,

your talk like mockingbirds

alarming our night warm.

Drilling a half inch bit into galvanized pipe

through which I’ll run a golden cord

the little motor (such a determined wheeze)

asks if I’m praying to a God.

No. Not right then. It’s just that I see

all of my projects in the sky,

and it takes some mumbling,

some breath to know how much

is enough, what is too much.

Whatever I work on, I see in fog,

and want it to be more of a companion

whose hands I can find, hold, on to.

- Adam Deutsch

seven Earth-sized planets

I hope

that all your rivers carry nothing

but wind, leaves and dirt;

your rain patters, shines

on obsidian mountains,

your snow and sleet go unseen,

undisturbed by foot or paw.

I hope

that all your trees sip moisture,

feast on steamy beams of light,

spurt tall and thick,

unfurl leaves of green,

turquoise, ochre, magenta;

sway, twist, shed leaves

across tangerine grass;

an interplanetary festival,

a dance that never exhausts,

withers only when the sun darkens,

fades from yellow to orange,

finally closing,

a crimson eye.

I look up to a slate sky,

glad that I can’t see you.

-David Tierney