FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW
The weather has landed
and moved on.
The house evokes candy
with its frosted roof,
creamy shingles,
and crystalline hangings.
The grass is heavy
with its burden of snow.
And the trees gleam like porcelain
in the tepid sun.
Bundled up outside,
we leave visible footprints
in the yard,
whereas, in previous seasons,
our presence lacked such evidence
and yet, intuitively,
we always know where we are,
what is ours, who we belong to.
The winter merely
reiterates the point I’m making.
It lacks our self-awareness.
So it sinks us deep instead.
ENVISION
Each evening, though
shaped by oncoming sleep,
my body informs me that
knowledge need no longer
conform to the physical.
So I gaze at black waters
of night, at sleep caves,
dream tunnels --
Senses float...sight on sound,
vision on taste.
Something awakens in me.
No, distractions ebb
so consciousness can flow.
NO POINT LOOKING UP
Jupiter…it’s all just hydrogen and helium.
A liquid body with a small solid core.
No one gets to love on a planet like that.
Or vote. Or watch sports. See movies.
The sky, for all its heavenly associations,
is sure no cosmic comfort.
The light is dead by the time it reaches me.
And the moon, near as it is, is just a rocky squib.
My escape cannot be collapsing nebulae.
Or atmospheres of methane and ammonia.
Or icy dots. Or superdense neutron stars.
And spare me your planet X.
There is no treasure up there.
No future. No work. No woman.
The good air sticks to what I know.
If I’m to breathe it, I can only be here.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Shift, River And South and Flights. His latest books Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. He has upcoming work in Rush, Spotlong Review and Trampoline.
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