All hallows eve

 The night is young and the wind runs cold.

Leaves spin and twist—

a macabre dance of new-fallen death.


Down the block, children go door to door,

knocks and squeals,

tricks or treats tumbling from small hands.


Up the road beyond the circle, the graveyard begins—

walled in, stone-sure,

like the bodies that lie interred six feet under.


Some say that on this single night—All Hallows’ Eve—

the dead rise to frighten.

But while the masks and props try to startle,

some of the dead only want a new view.


They rise around us—those who won’t sleep—

to watch, to laugh, to smile,

even without teeth.

They carry the weight of old Halloweens:

their own childhoods, their children’s costumes,

that sweet mix of fear and fun,

and the families time has thinned.


They watch and they smile; some even sway,

bones creaking, teeth chattering,

a little music in the chill.


Death can be frightening.

Maybe it’s simply the next bend in the path,

and we walk it with the ones we love.


When dawn peeks over the horizon

and houses go quiet,

the dead lift a hand to one another

and step back into the earth.

Another year gone.

Another year to rest in peace.


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