A NOVEMBER RELIEF PACKAGE
It's early November,
the reds are gone from the trees,
only the yellows and browns remain.
A walk through the shedding forest
is half-drug, half-dream.
I'm enamored of
the breath of breeze on skin,
refuse to remember
the difficult time
I leave behind in the cottage.
I stroll to a stop,
watch a squirrel gathering and burning acorns,
in panic that winter may come too soon.
And a deer nibbling grasses
that poke through the roots of an oak.
I am so taken by my surrounds
that I have less of my own self
to deal with.
I thank you forest.
A disagreement turns to fluttering leaves,
silence between crackling steps.
LOONS ON THE LAKE
The lake ripples toward the dusk.
The sunbaked stillness,
the feeding repetitions,
are done with for the day.
No more takeoff for no reason.
No more headstrong landing whoosh.
White patches succumb to black.
Yodel quiets to fluttered murmur.
From crumbling surface to fading shore,
red eyes guide birds home.
For in the long creep of shadow,
the world changes hands.
Moon appeals for softer focus.
Stars spill across the lake,
like a broken string of pearls
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Oyez Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in New Plains Review, Big Muddy Review, Willow Review and Louisiana Literature.