I met an old Indian, out in the hills.
He appeared out of nowhere, which gave me the chills.
He stood there with arms crossed, in front of his chest.
The smile on his face, helped put me at rest.
I offered my hand, to show I was a friend.
He didn’t respond, his hand didn’t extend.
His feet were both planted, and blocking the trail.
I tried to be friendly, but that attempt failed.
I pushed my hand forward, and started to walk.
My hand went right through him, then he started to talk.
“I’ve lived in these mountains, for hundreds of years,
I’ve met many people, and tested their fears.
You are a brave one, you push me away.
I don’t push so easy, so here I will stay.”
The man was my size, I could see him stand there,
But a wave of my hand, showed that he was just air.
A ghost, I would guess, of those that have passed.
Could there be more? How long do they last?
I looked away, for a second or two,
And when I looked back, I swear this is true.
My ghost was gone, as fast as he came,
I hadn’t a chance, to ask him his name.
I can only assume that he was a ghost,
Protecting the people, that he loved most.
By Don Rothra