A woman in white

Paler than winter,
with breath to match,
she emerges from such whiteness,

there, at the edge of trees,
and moving this way,
slowly, evenly,
barely brushing the snow-pack,
floating forward
like a nun with no feet.

I am a tremor of fingers,
a trepidation of arteries,
a face at the window,
stupefied in ice.

This land is far north
of where it was this morning.
She is more alive
than she has been in years.

My visitations

I sit in silence,
chin on my fist,
staring into nothingness.
I am pondering,
considering,
lingering over
what my reaction
should be.

The phantom
in the room
has her ideas.
She’s shrieking,
wailing,
pressing her wispy lips,
hollow eyes
and nostrils,
against my face.

Should I tremble?
Should I cower?
Or, even worse,
feel guilty
for all I’ve
done to her?

I merely answer,
calmly, forthrightly,
“It’s all your fault
for reminding me
so much of my mother.”
Maybe she’ll go away then.
It worked with all the others.