David Hightower Poetry Grandfather Ghost

Grandfather Ghost


Tall, angular, white-haired;
in the few blurred images of old photos,
a grin always haunts his face.
That morning he didn’t wake for breakfast,
didn’t stir when the hounds outside
howled his name.
His favorite dog, a frantic feist, who followed his every step,
raced through the farmhouse,
searched every hallway, room and closet,
whimpered at his absence,
and ran outside to follow his master’s scentless trail.
Perhaps he found it.
No one ever saw the tiny dog again.
The plowed fields grew blossoms of silence
that ripened to memories passed on to me.
Over the years I harvested new crops of stories
from family and from randomly met friends.
I never heard a harsh word
uttered against him.
Grandfather Ghost has drifted through my life
for fifty-five years,
drawing me along my path like foxfire in darkness,
gentle poltergeist of my soul.
He dreamed his death
just before I dreamed my birth.
We waved at each other in passing.