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The Ghost in Willow Park

A Poem

By Autumn Published 3 months ago 2 min read

Beneath the willow's silver sweep,

Where morning mist and shadows sleep,

Young Mira wandered, bright and free,

To her most favorite willow tree.

The park was hers each Saturday—

The oak trees tall, the creek at play,

The meadow dressed in petals bright,

But the willow held a secret light.

One autumn morn, when fog rolled in,

A glow appeared, soft and thin,

A girl in white upon a branch,

Her smile as gentle as a glance.

"Hello," she said, like wind chimes singing,

"I'm Luna, here, forever lingering.

A ghost am I, who loves this place,

And I've been waiting for your face."

Mira sat without a fear,

"A ghost? But why are you still here?"

Luna floated, light as air,

"This park's my home—I'm everywhere.

I know each bird that's ever flown,

Each rabbit burrow, moss-lined stone,

The wind tells tales, the trees remember,

From April's bloom to cold December."

"But aren't you lonely?" Mira asked.

Luna paused, her smile unmasked,

"I was, until today, my dear,

When someone pure of heart came near.

Not everyone can see me glow—

Only those who truly know

The magic that this green park keeps,

In every flower, stone, and tree that weeps."

So Mira came each Saturday,

And Luna showed her hidden ways—

The owl's nest in the hollow tree,

Wild strawberries where none could see.

They laughed beneath the willow's shade,

Through summer sun and autumn's fade,

Mira shared her tales of school,

Luna taught her nature's rules.

The seasons turned, the years went by,

But friendship needs no reason why.

When Mira brought her daughter small,

She whispered by the willow tall:

"Look carefully beneath the tree,

If you love this park, you'll see."

The little girl gasped with delight,

At the shimmer dressed in silver light.

For Luna still keeps watch and ward,

Over every blade and shard,

A gentle ghost who chose to stay,

In the park she loves, come what may.

And those who wander with pure hearts,

May glimpse her where the magic starts—

Beneath the willow, soft and bright,

A friend who glows with starlit light.

Prose

About the Creator

Autumn

Hey there! I'm so glad you stopped by:

My name is Roxanne Benton, but my friends call me Autumn

I'm someone who believes life is best lived with a mixture of adventures and creativity, This blog is where all my passions come together

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