How old must one's ghost child be to ignore the plea,
To hide in re-breathed, man-made cool air,
Just an old woman in her dim, sad lair.
Dancing the unseen current fades as a pastel dream,
So comely is her spirit, so beautifully gentle the day,
She welcomes memories, "Come back I pray!"
A ruffling aura faintly disturbs her rest and reverie,
Peace ascends with blessings and care,
Beauty re-found in the One so fair.
"Sweet Jesus," she sings in the warm gusty twilight,