The "Ghost Spring" Issue


P.C. Scheponik

Learning to Read at 63

Now that I am retired, my life is like the last chapter of a book I don’t want to end.
So, I am reading it slowly—line by line, one word at a time, savoring each inference
and essence that I find as I read, as I breathe the words in and out like air. Each moment
willingly surrenders itself like a sacrificial lamb on the altar of time, neck pulled back,
waiting for the blade, the push, the pull, the rush of blood that finds the meaning behind
the scarlet curtain, which hides the nowhere between who I am and who I was meant to be.
If only I had been willing, if only I had been able to read between the lines, I might have
seen the real story being told.

Of Promises and Keeping

The moon is a smooth ivory disk pressed against night’s ebony cheek,
a silent, self-contained, wandering waif who monthly seeks a place to stay,
to be whole, to feel safe. In her travels, the moon regularly keeps her promised
dates with tides and time, and she never breaks her vows to follow night or
dutifully to shine her gracious light upon the earth once sun has fled in the hope
to birth another day. Then the moon is celestial queen reigning over the eternal
gleam of countless starry eyes who seem to stare in perpetuation at the infinite
machinations of time and space. And we of flesh, and we of blood cast up our
eyes in awe to face our deepest, darkest fear:
We are all alone in the pitch of night, and the moon and the stars don’t really
care how lonely or how frightened we are.