September 2, 2019

The New Winter by John Grey

Down at field’s edge,
winter rises up against
the first crop of wildflowers,
tries brief deceptive hibernations,
comes at night when it thinks
no one is watching,
then finally settles in the dog’s metal dish
on the front step
where the season is gulped down mercilessly.

That’s it.
Only pleasure henceforth.
We can now answer the question,
“What is a lake?”
Or survey the rise of a gentle hill.
Or take a shovel or rake to the soil
for this year’s plantings.
Or merely sit out on the porch
and watch the grass grow long.

Winter’s truly gone by this.
There’s no sudden lurch back to life
like Glenn Close in the bath.
It’s defeated by the dog
and the boredom of the weather forecasts.
Yes, it will come again.
But without the confidence of prior years.







John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dunes Review, Poetry East and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Thin Air, Dalhousie Review and failbetter.

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