Autumn reds,
a colony of yellow tansy,
on roadsides, goldenrod,
though, when I was born,
wattle flowered
from the day before
to the day after.
I sit on the porch
at dusk,
humored by color,
though I’d prefer to be cured,
as house shadow,
drawn out by the western sky,
crosses my face, my lap.
Sun speaks to each of us in turn –
my light is certainly worth having
but you can’t take it with you.
A mother, father,
three sisters,
I’ve lost for good.
I prefer the sun that shines,
not the one that speaks.
Meet the Poet!
John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Ellipsis. Latest books, ‘Covert’, ‘Memory Outside The Head’, and ‘Guest Of Myself’ are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Washington Square Review and Red Weather.
