Poetry by George Freek
THE VALUE OF WEEDING MY GARDEN
People creep along the street.
I wonder what life
once moved beneath their feet?
It was there for billions of years,
before roses bloomed
and lilies grew here,
observed by these same stars,
which never grow old,
but I still continue my work,
because weeds
never stop growing,
and questions I can’t answer,
disturb my weeding.
AFTER AN EVENING WALK
After a warm rain the grass
stretches to the horizon,
where it meets the infinite sky.
The gardens are as brilliant
as Persian carpets,
but storm clouds like boulders
gather in that sky.
Turning away with eyes
looking firmly ahead,
I avoid a muddy weed bed,
and the leaves which hang
from sagging branches,
like soggy lanterns,
as they begin to fall
on my hatless head.
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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