White irises float on the darkening air
like ghosts of sturdier flowers,
far less substantial than the child
I almost saw through doors
and windows of the old house,
disappearing out of sight too fast
for me to grab more than a glimpse
of legs and curly hair. The ghost boy
at 3am can't have been real, running
through a daylit house I lived in years ago—
but far too much like truth
revealed in a mystery.
I'm scared to sleep tonight.
What if he finds me here?