FATE IS RESOLUTE
The sky is grey
like the belly of a dead snake.
The frail sun leans on a tree,
as its leaves fall like children,
rocking in their cradles
to an old nursery rhyme,
sentimentally,
but icy rain arrives as a harbinger
of winter snow,
as an insouciant hawk circles
in a display of hawkish pride.
For this moment,
he’s master of his world,
but as the earth freezes,
he’ll find himself lost
in an overwhelming sky,
baffled and weary,
he, too, will also die.
WINTER AT EAST LAKE
The flowers are buried
under the frozen earth
along with the residents
on cemetery hill.
Ancestors are there,
who were dead at my birth.
Like the flowers of October,
this snow seems to have
destroyed my will,
as my roof groans,
with the wind’s lethal blows.
I’m snowbound.
My fingers feel too cold
to write, but the moon glides
like a youthful skater,
across a glass-like night,
and I have to wonder
if my dreary mood
is because of winter,
or because I suddenly
find I’m growing old,
and I’m unprepared
for what I was never told.
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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