My Bright Ghost Hands

The darkness, is incomplete
on a trail through the gumbo limbo
hammock we watch shadows,
pivot and shift.
A break in the canopy reveals an
isosceles triangle of moonlight
on the path.
We see one another, briefly, in
silver and none of us knew
that we’d been hunting
will-o-wisps in South Florida.
But my how they dazzled and
drifted – are these the ancestors’ spirits?
Perhaps a revelation that the
spirits we stopped seeking
could come lilting back into our
lives, so lazily I couldn’t stifle
my giggles of pure glee.
Whispering onwards, while bears
encroached in black and white,
I caught a will-o-wisp in my
bright ghost hands and
fed it to my hungry heart.

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