A poem for a (rainy) Friday

I don't write poetry much, as I've mentioned before...  But here's something that captured my imagination for an hour or so yesterday....

Lament for the Wandering Native Spirits

The ghosts that walk the southern road at night,
Caddo, Choctaw, Alabama-Coushatta, Tawakoni pass
Under the moss strung live oak branches, breathing
The frog air, thick with sweat, painted mud red and
Covered in shadow, amble slowly past the small
Town cemetery with no greeting for the sleeping
Spirits, dead eyes lingering on stone. They know
The ordered trees -- soldier pine, loblolly, birch,
Corkwood -– hear their leaves whispering, recognize
The sound and choose a path according to the wind
Humming through the boughs. They are no more and
Still exist, a tear on the stain of futile memory, lost
On a wintry night behind the cackle of
A tripping stream, banks pock-marked with crawfish
Holes, the albino forms of channel cats slurping
Flies from the surface. This is the way
We remember, random images, forms of thought, shades
And slips and reconsidered visions, all of our misspent sins
Counted again with pebbles, exactly numbered. Hold me
With only eyes, fix this face with strong arms and
Shaken hands; the dawn rains insufferably ahead, out
On the plain, cleared and desolate.