Wild Strawberry

On summer strolls, I often find.
Wild strawberry flowering in the wood,
White leaf, gold bud, my cheerless mood
Is ruffled clear, as fragrant wind
Blows equally through flower, through mind,
And makes it plainly understood,
That I am one with nature’s brood,
To cone, am fused, to stamen, pinned.

We mingle lives, we share the death,
My lullaby, your gorgeous wreath,
We bloom until our breath is gone,
We do not pass this way alone,
I grow flesh red, you rustle words,
We share all that this world affords

 

Sonnet of the Clocks

This is the house I live in now. On all
Sides of me, clocks, new and antique,
They muzzle my own days so time can speak
Unquestioned, from its throne, on desk and wall.
This is the house I lived in then. As small
As dreams allowed, but each year, month and week
Not about their measure, despotic, bleak,
But the real pleasure of each room’s recall.

And these are the houses that live inside
Each other. Their passions for all that’s past.
The fear of how the moments are applied
To lives. The brief standing up to the vast.
The willfulness of time with all its tide.
The way what is not now will always last.

 

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.  


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