Ghost Tree Near November the vascular branches sprout these linen buds, the afterthoughts left from Halloween, small spirits banded to a tree like the so many overstuffed handkerchiefs they were, in the grandparents' pockets they'd inhabited. Sturdier than the leaves they've replaced, and perhaps their poltergeists, they lean into winds, their stygian profiles unchanging, silent except for the rustlings they mimic above starched, dry lawns, with leaves and Snickers wrappers their shed skins, and their hauntings now until they melt into winter. Bill Dubie |