| Ghosts sit on the edge of my bed, noticeable by the slightest weight dipping the foot down. They tell me of white ribbons tied around pine branches and hung over doors to keep them out. They mourn wells filled with black feathers and tar streaked over warped windows, hiding secret spaces from them. And they share with me a fondness for sleepy earthworms, black furry mushrooms and pale green eyes. Deep pools of water, drowned laughter and the subtle scent of juniper smudge sticks pulls me back to reality, and the touch of a small cat tapping at my feet. |