Don't think me unusual, it isn't  what it seems.
I don't see dead people, not even in my dreams.
Yet deep within  the Winter's chill.
when all is drear, grey  and dread.
I reach up to the topmost shelf
and take a book to bed.
Sometimes I visit with Robert Frost,
or Edgar Allan Poe.
Sometimes it's Caesar ravaging Gaul
or high tea with Arthur Clough.
They all are windows to the past,
now freed from their fleshy prison.
I always let them have their say,
while I just sit and listen.