Ghost Lace
I could not see her face,
She was completely ensconced,
Head to foot in silky white,
Rose-adorned chantilly lace.
The lace was light and airy
lit up and shining from within,
As if her wandering soul
Were a star, a lost cometary.
She moved across the room
As if familiar with its shape,
Paused before the fireplace,
Smoky tendrils curling around her like a plume.
She turned away, ghost lace flowing,
Then vanished leaving only the faintest trace
Of a lingering delicate perfume,
And the antique window drapes blowing.
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