Why Do Ghost's Wear Clothes

I passed the elm at eventide, Its arms were bare, its breath was wide, And there beneath the twilight sky I thought I saw a woman roam. Her gown was thin as woven mist, A memory the dark had kissed; No rustle made, no shadow cast— She moved as moonlight through the grass. Do ghosts wear gowns like we once wore, With hems that brush the oaken floor? Do buttons cling and silks remain When souls have slipped the cords of life? Perhaps they wear what dreams devise— Not stitched by hand, but born of skies. A shawl of dusk, a veil of rain, The hush of snow against the pane. She turned to me but made no sound, And yet my heart was loosely bound— By what, I cannot quite define: A lace of loss, a thread of time. If ghosts wear clothes, they must be spun From things undone, from lives begun.