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Not spooky, and not a town,
but a child’s link to
ghosts of her home,
you tell me more
than the asphalt
and split-levels
know
about the ground they cover.

Walk across the Grays’ backyard to where
the lawn ends and
the woods begin,
scramble up a rooty hill, through
hip-high grass,
past ditches filled with rainwater
to an ancient tree.
Climb it. Perch on one
thick gnarled branch,
feel the presence of history:

An apple orchard,
a farm,
a family whose daughter
abducted by an Indian tribe
returned years later
to live with her husband
in a wigwam
behind the family home.
She would not enter the house.

Some ghosts will not be buried.

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