Today's poem is by F. D. Reeve
The Secret Orchard
The ghosts of a house live in the upstairs hall.
You hear them on their midnight rounds
laughing like the bells of history; by day
they hang like coats along the wall.
In the dark do they stand tall with upright names
as haughty as acolytes lighting an altar?
Surely a few are bent over by worry
like owls, or the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
In April, when the foreign wind relents
and their preposterous imagination starts
a crusade for free love and an end to suffering,
do they beg their loss be recompensed?
That's when I go to the secret orchard. The dew
is fresh on the grass, and a white-throat sings.
There the haunted world is a Faerie ring,
and the earth at sunrise, a magic view.
Copyright © 2003 F. D. Reeve All rights reserved
from Connecticut Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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Copyright © 2002, 2003 Verse Daily All Rights Reserved