Sometimes in the dark of a deep night
ghosts appear to bar my sleep.
They haunt without giving me fright.
Into the dark they slowly creep.

At times the ghost is a small boy
with hair of blond and a broad smile.
He haunts me with innocent joy
and only stays for a short while.

The ghost is sometimes in his prime,
thick of hair and strong of stride
who has just begun to value time,
with muscled arms and shoulders wide.

Then randomly one of teen years
dressed in uniform for football game
whose green eyes have yet shed many tears,
who still had dreams of lasting fame.

At times the spirit's a young father
with contented but squinted eyes
from always peering a bit farther
trying to avoid any of life's surprises.

But scarcer comes an ancient fellow
fuzzy edged and indistinct
creeping haltingly with teeth all yellow
direction determined by mere instinct.

All these spirits , all these ghosts
and myriad others of all ages
are me and memories I host
which fill up my tome's pages.