Rustling leaves

In her yard
She rakes the leaves, sun dried, crispy, browned
It's summer
So she knows, from her yard covered by these
Yet she yearns for the spring
Which has passed
Often she stops, looks around to answer a calling
It's her name she hears
Yet unsure if it's her ears or years
Yet she does turn
I as always sit at the gate
Atop, in a hazy form , watching
As she turns around seeing no one
For the gone never call
Yet they may, but maybe they don't seem as audible, or at all
Maybe the heart has ears to a soul
Its dusk
The sun has reddened the skies
I sit regardless at the gate
Watch her go about her chores
Her wrinkly hands, putting things into place
And her beautiful greys
Flying in the evening wind
I would have floated along the breeze
Yet how impossible it is for a ghost to feel
So maybe the only solace is to sit
Watch her turn the lights out late night
Falling asleep .