A Ghost That Tracks in Dirt

I saw him once more, by the haystack she never let us touch,

where the pitchfork leaned like a question too tired to stand straight,

and I knew by the way the wind changed gears, like an old tractor remembering war songs,

that he wasn't just a shadow flicked from memory,

but a man who never learned how to stay buried.

She thought he was dead,

and maybe he had been,

the kind of death you grow into when love dries up in the trough

and all that’s left are the echoes of things said without meaning them.

But there he was, boots caked in regret,

hands too empty for comfort, too full of the past to wave,

looking at the horizon like it owed him something softer than her goodbye.

I said nothing, because what do you say

to a mistake wearing the face of a miracle,

to a storm dressed as a second chance?

So I fed the chickens, fixed the gate,

and didn’t mention the man behind the haystack

who smelled like memory and diesel,

whose heart she’d burned into ash long ago,

and still, somehow,

he flickered.