By George Freek
WHERE CAN WE LOOK FOR THE PAST
Autumn has arrived,
like an expectant mortician,
dressed in sombre grey.
To whom can we pray?
The flowers have died,
and frantic squirrels scurry
to salvage a few remaining nuts,
where leaves fall to their rest
in yellow, red and brown,
falling to the ground,
without making a sound.
The moon’s silver light
clings to the trees,
then vanishes into eternity.
If I look at the stars,
I can barely see them.
They’re without eyes,
So they’re unable
to even look back at me.
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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