AMERICAN LIFE IN POETRY: Season's spirits

Ghost Villanelle

We never saw the ghost, though he was there-- we knew from the raindrops tapping on the eaves.

We never saw him, and we didn't care.

Each day, new sunshine tumbled through the air; evenings, the moonlight rustled in dark leaves.

We never saw the ghost, though: he was there,

if ever, when the wind tousled our hair

and prickled goosebumps up and down thin sleeves; we never saw him. And we didn't care

to step outside our room at night, or dare click off the nightlight: call it fear of thieves.

We never saw the ghost, though he was there

in sunlit dustmotes drifting anywhere,

in light-and-shadow, such as the moon weaves.

We never saw him, though, and didn't care,

until at last we saw him everywhere.

We told nobody. Everyone believes

we never saw the ghost (if he was there), we never saw him and we didn't care.

American Life in Poetry is made possible by The Poetry Foundation ( www.poetryfoundation.org ), publisher of Poetry magazine. It is also supported by the Department of English at the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. Poem copyright (c) 2003 by Dan Lechay. Reprinted from "The Quarry," Ohio University Press, 2003, by permission of Dan Lechay. Introduction copyright (c) 2008 by The Poetry Foundation. We do not accept unsolicited manuscripts.