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George Freek

Posted in George Freek with tags on August 25, 2021 by Scot


I watch the sun set
behind snow-shrouded trees.
The moon rises, toothless,
lacking in grace,
then vanishes without
a trace, and the night
reveals a grotesque face.
Trees bare grasping teeth.
Snow falls implacably.
If I believed in some god,
I would fall to my knees.
But I’m now fifty-seven.
I’ve watched too many
leaves dance to their death
with their terminal disease.
I’ll wait for spring.
Once upon a time I thought
it was a marvelous thing.