Poetry by George Freek
OCTOBER EVENING Squirrels frantically rush to gather nuts before the November chill, but crows stand in their way like schoolyard bullies, as leaves sway to their death, making no sound when they fall to the ground. Orange cones of moonlight drip through the trees, like the sand falls from an hourglass with a timeless ease. The distant stars are cold and forbidding. This is nature, and it’s unconcerned with me. AND THE SKY ABOVE White clouds stretch like sheets on a hospital bed. Two crows in naked branches look desolate and unfed. There’s no sun. There’s no moon. The day topples where it finds room. Geese fly south, not by reason or passion. It’s an instinctive action. As clouds darken in that sky, they speak of a coming storm, and autumn’s leaves, one by one, return to earth, to finally die.
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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