Ghosted

Ghosted 
Jonathan Moya

Its shadow left my overgrown garden
and drifted into the kitchen.

It added ivy and mold 
to my cooking dandelions.

Then, after dappling two shades of gray 
to the yellow and green cocina light,

vanished into the closed curtains,
idling in the dust and driving quiet.

Just before sunset it 
separated itself from the heavy cloth,

guided me by the hand and urged me to climb
the towering century-old sea grape in back.

I told it no, 
“I'm too old for that now.”

“You never were a climber,”
it said.

It urged me to the woods beyond,
but I refused. 
 
I plucked a few dandelions.
It refused the gift.

“ I’d rather meet you in the section of the garden
where you can’t see the house,” it said.

Now, every sunset I wait on the white bench
among the abandoned flower bed 

for it to come and
happen again.