Her expressionless face looking down from the highest window
from the abandoned and locked up attic
The one reserved for ghosts and spirit vultures
cold inhabitant soaked into wood stains
reliving a blink of their existence and scaring meek guests
She looked down and we looked up as if a miracle
an elegant ghost in a blink of an eye
as if to anchor the past somehow but miss the mark
a twitch of a glitch in pale sunlight
Winter's own voice speaks through her
White vale captured by the real breeze
flowing and then vanishing before our eyes
staring up dumbfounded yet the apparition was gone
Omen like and inconclusive
we'd search the empty attic looking for signs
Nothing but a faint promise of the supernatural
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