Doug Ramspeck
Ghost Lullaby
And if the river is still whispering of the boy,
the mother dreams that the ribcage
of years constructs the raised bridge of willows
at the water’s edge. And since once a body
formed itself from liquid and loam,
there must be a spirit in the thin skin of snow
come winter, the layering of ice, the way years
build themselves one atop the next. The ghosts
dance into this shape she understands: black waters
moving out beneath a night sky, the milk
of stars spilling from a forgotten breast.
Alluvial Prophesy