Ghosts Surely Sing
Ghosts do sing too—
only their mouths
open too wide,
as if no commissure binds them,
like gates unlatched by silence.
They sing at the wake of each night,
while dreaming birds forget the sky;
when moonlight burns its brightest,
and the awoken owls can only howl.
Though they sing in graves of clay,
their melodies rise beyond the day;
they are melodious on heaven’s rim,
then blend with silence when the wind rolls on wheels.
Their songs are celestial fire—
angels their ecclesiastics, their choirmasters.
The notes are sonorous,
yet only danced to by
the flapping of their wings—
not by wriggling waists
nor kicking limbs;
for their legs no longer walk but float,
and motion keeps no memory—
a breath dissolved in thin air.
Their song—once mortal, once mundane—
now a chorus divinely condoned;
for they were composed
and filled with praise for the King of Glory—
the One who holds the crown alone,
who shares His glory with no one.
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