The dead lived here once.
Their ghosts are quiet and content.
This is the garden they tended.
Here stands the stonewall they built.
This chimney has three hundred years practice
channeling smoke from fire to sky.
There above the hearth rests a musket
once wielded in the cause of liberty.
When I fetch candles from the pantry
I brush against all those ghostly hands fetching candles.
But I am the first in the line to drink tea.
I feel those departed coffee drinkers frown in disgust.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney