From the willow cave, Margaret T
Told stories in strange tongues,
Hissing, swaying like green willow ropes
Shaken by the breeze.
Her words, unclear.
Their meaning, quite clear:
There’s a ghost in your house. You’ll die
Of bellyache—so soon!
One evening I ran home
To do the prudent thing.
Slipped under the bed, lay still
Just long enough.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I told her. Then she told me.
That night slept easy. But soon,
Again: Tugging the willow ropes,
Watching, listening to Margaret T.