By George Freek
THE MOON NEVER SPEAKS TO ME
Life unrolls from day to day,
like an endless carpet
full of ancient mysteries.
I watch day become night
like a moth emerging
from its cocoon,
as the moon reveals
some hidden scheme.
I have no idea what it means,
but the moon soon vanishes,
along with the night,
and dust falls from the stars.
In some other world,
far beyond our sight,
another sun is rising
to provide light,
for life there,
as it begins its unknown,
precarious start.
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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