By George Freek
WINTER IN A DARK WOOD
The night is a black tar pit.
Creatures of the dark
crawl blindly from their holes.
Some will die in it,
and then blow away
like petals from a dead rose.
The moon stumbles
across the sky,
but the moon is also blind.
I take little notice of the moon.
The stars are distractions
from the remains
of an ordinary day.
They’re as frail
As ornaments of paper mache,
hanging from a paper tree.
They’re unreachable
In my search for things
I’ll never find.
The stars are somewhere,
but they’re also deaf and blind.
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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