The Chamisa is a Ghost with Pale Green Wings 

                 *In memory of Athene Freeman who died August 17, 2002 

Her car was crushed, her house emptied and sold to us.

In my dreams, I hear sirens. In the shadows,

she lingers although I've never seen her. 

At night, light glows in her abandoned shed.

She was a jeweler.  Shrubs surround the shed

where her gems were stored. 

Skeletal stems of chamisa front our falling down fence.

Unfurling plants sway to the ghost of a breeze.

The wind blows in on a flutter.

Striations of shadow marry spidery branches

to slats on the old green fence. 

Silvery shoots shimmer. 

Chamisa grows wild. dry, drinking up light,

dense and tangled at the core. Underneath 

protected by shrubs' irridescent wings,

lie broken limbs, twisted bark, a branch bent down

oppressed by heavy weight, parallel to the ground.

Our pets are buried here, shrouded in chamisa.

The chamisa is a skeleton with spindly limbs.

The chamisa is a ghost with pale green wings.

Leaves from a lost season catch the sun. 

Brittle stems stick to the base of a broken branch.

Her unopened trunk eats up space.

Our cats leap over the wall.

To the left of the shed, a seedling takes root.

Spring warmth animates youth's pliable leaves.

The chamisa is a pale green wing.

As the ghost breeze blows, the wind swirls.

It's time, time to leave those gems behind.

Stalks draw chiseled shapes in the air.

The stems and leaves reach with their tips.

Space expands, more air, time to climb

towards celestial chants, undo the siren's wail.

Dried leaves from last fall funnel into sky.

Voices spiral.

The pale green shrubs weave and wave.