by Michael Plante

There’s a chill that creeps up your back
when the full moon rises
and the mist hovers over the hills of Carolina.
In the old tin shed a candle is lit
and placed in the window to ward off the ill.
“Never mind about this house
move on to where you need to be”

And the spirits call out their annoyance
like an owl in the darkness
or a horse caught in a nightmare
stomping the dirt to wake up the living.
Those spirits long for the memories we hold
wanting just one more chance to say goodbye.

Yet the light in the darkness pushes them away
and the mist is all they have.
Rolling over the hills into the night
they holler to the moon, come down to the river
and sit with us awhile
let us speak of things from the past
as we drop stones into the water.
And the moon complies with a smirk.

The rolling hills are silent
and children nestle into the arms of mothers
as the warmth of fire slowly dies.
The rocking chair creeks one last time
before mothers dream of spring flowers.

Step upon the path
leading down to the river’s edge
through the mist that hides death’s face.
Reach the shoreline where spirits speak
and moonbeams bounce off the water’s crest.
Say no words, for there’s nothing to be said.
Just listen to the trickling of water.
Sit silently in the dark
as the chill of the mist creeps up your back
and into your heart.

What did the owl say to you?
Did the horse wake you up?
Or are you dreaming in the arms of mother
who has slowly rocked her way to sleep?

The candle has burned to nothing
the old tin shed is dark
the fire has died, and the river is silent.
A bouquet of wildflowers sit just outside the door
as the morning mist fades, and a new day begins.