There is a ghost which haunts my home.
Room to room she loiters, wanders,
ponders, sighs. This lady is gray winter,
lightless and cold, withering silently,
the queen of summer faeries dead
and lost as a small ship on the sea
which tosses over waves with limp resign
in a fog without a lighthouse to guide her.
She passes me by without notice, her
shrouded and shuttered eyes are
blind and dying, her mind but occupied
with that which was stolen, her life
she may have cradled, the child
her soul has gone to grave by.