The Pragmatist
 
She didn’t believe in ghosts.
Those cold spots,
glimpses of movement
at the corner of her eye,
faint whispers, sighs, moans,
soft thumps in the night –
all meaningless noise, at odds
with her sensible perception of reality.
 
Until that afternoon in spring
when she was washing the windows
and stretched too far out on the ladder . . .
 
She didn’t believe in ghosts
until she became one.
 
Pamela J. Jessen

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Pamela Jessen would be pleased to hear them.