She is raising the dead at night. Dancing in the streets. Swaying with the light poles, eyes closed, in the swirling Virginia snow.
She is conjuring up the past and forcing it from the shadows to move with her, translucent in the light.
The wind makes the snow dance seductively across the abandoned roads, paves the way for her ghosts to come home.
She is twirling where the snow blows, ice screaming beneath her feet. She is digging up all of her bitter memories. A sharp shovel to break into her past, release the haunts that she has kept caged back.
Tumults from the storm are thrown in the tumults from her throat. Woeful cries from shadows that no longer have a home.
She is pulling on the strings that draw the hurt in waves, begging for the moon to banish them again.
Raging all around her her ghosts are drawn to dance. They obediently turn and step exactly when the timing is right. Her eyes closed, she dances under orange-glow light poles, in the swirling Virginia snow.