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Poetry

Notes For Another Poem

George Freek
issue five

Summer’s flowers are gone.
All that’s left are
The decaying remains.
The trees have been bare
for months. This is nature,
raw, without emotion or thought.
In my garden, a hammock,
creaks in an insistent wind,
as winter approaches,
like a thief who needs no knife.
A lone crow observes the scene.
I yell at him. He ignores me.
Night has the odor of destiny.
Its color is dull gray.
I imagine the aroma of roses.
For a moment it’s sweet,
but it lived in the past,
and I can’t make it stay.