NIGHT AT WONDER LAKE Clouds like pillows smother the moonlight, as waves beat the shore, as if it were a door they’re unable to open. Like a moving circus the cosmos passes over my head, and I still have no idea, who I am, or why I’m even here. EVENING AT WEST LAKE The years pile up like snow on the roof. The moon looks trapped like an insect in the branches of a tree. A dove beckons to his unheeding mate. I think he’s too late. In frustration the dove abandons his tree, as life moves on. What will be, will be.
George Freek’s poetry has recently appeared in The Ottawa Arts Review, Acumen, The Lake, The Whimsical Poet, Triggerfish and Torrid Literature.
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