Ghosts of Olympia Brown

Licking lips she tightened her grip
the wind licked her back
a villianous kiss
mockingly stripping heat & homemade dew
in the sharp wind of some cold she knew

Under hand-hewn beams,
nothing there was quite as it seemed:
tip-toeing thru metallic fields of candlesticks,
Buddhas, bouquets, and glittered shapes with wicks; 
the churchy decor was boxed but a few were erupting
lined up loosely in dusty hauntings
Nervously bumping and moving as some clumsy giant in a small and sleepy cardboard town,
this historic attic held treasures & records, shadows & ghosts of Olympia Brown

There are no right words 
when speaking to the wrong people
That amongst all, she learned under the steeple,
where she sometimes struck chords 
while standing before or sitting on those bent pew boards:
holding all kinds and ages of butts,
pocked and tested by generational ruts
Sounds of impatient or impressed sighs
only you and your god knew truth or lies
and in between the thumps and shuffles
was a word a phrase a note…
Unmuffled: 
a single bit that carried you through less stumbly than the week before you had knew.


And now much like in all matter of things resembling ideas and lessons 
she was just one grateful blip amongst these tens of hundreds of blessin’s.