Ghost Choir

I dream of furniture set
underneath a broken trellis, 
where honeysuckle twined 
among the beans. Someone

watches from behind a curtain
in an upper window, in a house
where a widow woke from years
in a coma and stepped back 

into life as if she'd just
returned from another country.
Birds flash in and out of 
the leaves, lured by a memory 

of nectar. When I close my eyes 
I too can almost taste it. Flakes 
fall through the air: dust 
and the ghosts of dust.