Ghosts of January

A News Response Poem

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A storm descends. 
They come, not as spectres, 
but as shadows, blur of movement, 
swords clashing, shields gleaming,
flag waving, a medieval pageant.

Snow falls, a sterile blanket 
on sacred ground.
A casket, a caisson, a leader
laid to rest, the flag draped 
in mourning, a shroud 
over a past we both cherish and deny. 

Snow falls once more, 
a dense layer of white 
covering yesterday’s tracks. 
But even in the quiet of night, 
history reverberates, prolonged,
blended, lingering 
in the hallowed spaces. 

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