Autumn Hears Angels

She was beautiful, like three red balloons
In a November sky, and her voice
Like starlight, on August afternoons
Through the trees, rose high

She was a wayward soul, in long denim skirts
Tucked in corners, and skin
On tile floors grows cold, and hurts
A steel and flesh progression

She was the ghost of a smile, a splintered run
Crumbling like stone, a sweet
And graceful procession, in midday sun
That mourners trail to moan

In dirt and wood, it seems she smiles most
And true to this, the absence of her ghost