Though we might share a breath, stood toe to toe,
You glance about and dream my place were empty:
And though I left deep footfalls in the snow,
You’d overstep me.
You do not see the very signs you ought to.
Have you observed the air wring branches out?
You would not feel the wind unless it fought you,
And see it less, I doubt.
It’s not her death, but in the creaking stair
Through which the lover stirs our slumber most.
You’ll overlook a wife who isn’t there,
But not a ghost.