My favorite forest is full of ghosts,
but none of them are yours. 

 I sit among the bluebells,
unwrap my blue plaid scarf, 
“stay a while…” 

 the leaves and I consort with the past: 
rain falls and sparkles and dries, 
and we raise lightning rods to toast

 our restless walking under the trees, 
the living and dead discussing 
our fathers. 

By Heidi Turner