Ghosts
by Richard Kendall Munkittrick

Out in the misty moonlight,
The first snow flakes I see,
As they frolic among the leafless
Limbs* of the appletree.

Faintly they seem to whisper,
As round the boughs they wing;
“We are the ghosts of the flowers
Who died in the early spring.”

*Lang changes “limbs” to “boughs”