The last of Autumn's leaves drift on the chill,
Before they scatter to the freezing ground;
Another dark, cold winter climbs the hill
And with it, months of quiet. Not a sound.
For untold years, she sits there on the sill,
And waits for something special, or profound;
A moment where she'll somehow find the will,
To let them know she's waiting to be found;
But each time chance appeared, she's remained still,
Afraid her fragile world will be unwound.
They come, they go -- nobody stays for long,
As if they sense her presence wandering there;
Yet most don't even see her, truth be told.
She needs a friend with whom she can belong;
Someone with whom her secrets she can share--
And in the silent darkness, have to hold.
---
The young boy sits cross-legged on the floor,
White felt cowboy hat upon his head;
His favourite outfit pulled from dresser drawer:
Superman shirt, and shorts of grey and red.
A lawman like no other seen before:
Break the law? Prepare to deal in lead
(Not exactly, but you'll get what for --
He has no pistol -- just a toy instead).
So focused on his coloring today,
A dozen crayons scattered round his knees,
He doesn't see the girl there right away,
(Though when he finally does, there's no unease.)
In tiny voice, she hears him idly say,
"Excuse me -- pass the orange crayon, please?"
----
At first, Amelia's too surprised for words;
'He sees you', she can hear her instincts bray.
Decades without friends (save cats or birds)
Has left her without anything to say.
Yet, the boy's passivity assures
He isn't going to scream and run away --
Perhaps a friend, to ease what she endures:
A constant nightmare, day by hollow day.
She reaches for the crayon on the floor,
But can't grab on - her fingers pass right through
(Something Matthew's never seen before) --
He stares a moment, wondering what to do...
Then recalls all his scary monster lore,
And whispers softly, "You're not real, are you?"
---
"Of course I'm real," Amelia replies,
"Why would you think something so absurd?"
Matt looks at his shoes with worried eyes,
And mutters, "Did I say a naughty word?"
Hackles lowered, touched, she almost cries;
His voice more earnest than she's ever heard --
She sees he didn't mean to criticize;
He's trying to explain what just ocurred.
"I'm Matt," he says. "My family just moved in."
I'm seven and a half -- that's eight, almost.
I'm a Sheriff -- see my star of tin?
And here's my hat (I like the white one most).
I've seen a lot," he says, rubbing his chin,
"But I don't think I ever seen a ghost."
---
So goes the spring of 1975,
For Matt and his "imaginary" friend:
A ghost, he understands -- she's not alive,
No matter how intently they pretend --
And yet, their mutual fondness, left to thrive,
Blossoms to affection without end;
A bond above all else that will survive,
That only these two souls can comprehend.
Of course, the afterlife has other schemes;
Death cares not for matters of the heart,
But young love's always taken to extremes;
Nothing can keep these two souls apart,
Beyond life and death, they dance in dreams,
Bound to one another from the start.
---
- © Jackson Cambridge, 2016
