Peggy Schimmelman

Branches of sycamores
demonic silhouettes
dancing on a midnight wind
scraping against my windowpane
like an unsettled spirit
begging entry.

To the ominous chant
of the whippoorwills
lamenting, beseeching,
a restless apparition
wanders my halls
floorboards creaking
from the weight
of a guilty lover’s
imagination.

A pale moon casts
a ghostly spotlight
across my half-empty bed
conjuring demons, inviting ghosts
of memories better left
undisturbed.