GRIEF Poem: Ghost Bones, by Caroline Wellman

Another season begins. The parents
of young runners have arrived to rake up
the walnuts, to mark ravines with bright flags
and paint the long gnarled tree roots white.
They step through shafts of morning sun,
painstaking and meticulous, as if
they’d been charged with raising the dead
at Troy, or mapping the half-submerged spine
of some fantastic beast, now eons old,
whose winding skeleton stretches for miles.
As if lighting the ghost bones
could keep us safe.

Author: poetryfest

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