A PARTING
You’ve now departed.
Tonight it’s a sickle moon.
Do we share it, although
you’re far away?
Unable to rest
on this mournful night,
I walk into my garden.
I try, but I can’t hold
in my hands
the moon’s pale light,
and my pajama bottoms
become wet with dew.
So I return to my room
to think of our reunion.
But I wonder, is it
the same question with you?
EMPTY THOUGHTS
After I eat my dinner,
I walk into November.
Leaves squirm as they die.
They have no choice.
Nature is their grim god.
Their lives are now over.
The stars look small,
but why they’re here at all,
remains a mystery.
As the moon rises
in funereal guise,
an icy wind blows.
Where does it come from?
where does it go?
I don’t really care to know,
and I hurry home
before I freeze,
no wiser than those dead leaves.
TINY DEATHS
I walk past a small.
twisting stream. Tonight
it’s quiet, almost serene,
but time rolls like thunder
through the dark night.
It echoes off the trees,
sick with a mortal disease.
Insects crawl about
in my uncut grass
Their life is brief.
If they die beneath my feet,
who would feel grief?
The stars might mourn
for billions of years.
What would they feel?
They wouldn’t shed a tear.
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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