Ghost House Tulips

A pale bedroom, dry and lifeless
the shell of a brass bed, patina and dust
Scabs of plaster, skeleton lathe.

Mirror at the top of the stairs
a motionless reflection
unchanged since it briefly held 
a frail woman's back 
descending.

She was beautiful once,
now she is outside.

The shutters fell from their brackets
long ago, leaving paint less faded 
where once they hung.

The old willow
now too dry to weep
rustles and creaks in a
cold October wind.

Around back, near the cellar door,
now beaten and rotten and hanging agape,
is a flock of tulips,
bulbs she planted with a hope
for recurring joy.