She Calls In the night, when the fog rolls past the tombstones you will see her. Her dress flowing ethereal around her feet, she hovers, never far from the grave, a child, lost and searching. When the moon waxes full and slides behind the clouds her face bears a haunting glow, her eyes pierce through the night. Tiny fingers reach out to you, a single flower in her hand, and wordlessly she calls. december 2002
