These Winters

by John Grey


There is no sunrise.
Grey out, grey in.
Anyone’s guess where snow will fall:
on the brown-grassed slopes,
in the chilly bedroom.

And what about that ice
blinding the lake,
choking the boughs,
hung from the ceiling
like daggers.

The wind’s no different.
It blows the dead trees crazy.
It tosses her nightgown aside,
freezes the exposed skin.

She lost a son.
What’s the world’s excuse?


Copyright © 2011 by John Grey

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