ghost stories

in passing some old church
as afternoon reclines,
the sunlight carving out
an image in relief
of all the old buildings
as mellow sentries of the past,
I look through a wrought-iron gate and see
the lichen-wrapped tombstones,
then to my left, a Quaker meeting house
where once I’d gone to vote, and saw
the inner courtyard where
the faithful must still sit and contemplate.

I cannot bring myself to faith.

but scenes like those I’ve said,
the flickering music of dusk on ancient stone,
allows the mind to broach wonder,
confirm a love of ghost stories
that in the end are just
a record of how human life lingers
in human memory.