THE HAWK IN THE MOONLIGHT
I stare at the dying sunlight.
When that passes, stars
will light the night,
but sleep won’t come.
My wife is gone.
My children are grown.
The story is very old.
I watch darkness closing in alone.
A hawk slowly circles
over the sluggish river.
The moon has vanished.
It’s unable to light my way.
That hawk is my only companion,
and I won’t be unhappy,
if he doesn’t stay.
AS IT IS IN OCTOBER
As autumn arrives,
dressed in somber gray
like an expectant mortician
the flowers die.
Where squirrels scurry
to gather a few remaining nuts,
leaves fall to their rest
in yellow, red and brown
on the cold ground
without a sound.
The moon’s silver light
clings to the trees,
then fades into eternity.
If I look at the stars,
I barely see them,
and they never 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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