by John Grey

Without their leaves,
maples are not maples.
They’re just bare trees
with wind-shaken shadows.
And where are the oaks?
Not these dead men surely—
buried upright but
bare-boned corpses every one.

My presence teases them
with movement, touch,
and mist-tinged breathing.
Sure, their roots go deep.
But I’m the one on a
brisk and healthy morning walk.
They do no more than
nibble on the soil beneath
for paltry winter sustenance.

For a good three miles,
my footsteps crunch
the brown-leaf trails,
scatter the remaining birds
and nervous squirrels,
the dregs of spring and
summer’s bountiful wildlife.

And yet, a month or two
from now, resurrection will begin,
the restoration of these skeletons
back to life. And birds will
migrate to here and animals
emerge from hibernation.
I’ll be a transient straight line
surrounded by permanent circles.

John Grey is an Australian poet and US resident, who has published in New World Writing Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, and Tenth Muse Literary Magazine and has work forthcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Amazing Stories, and Freshwater Literary Journal. The poet’s latest books—Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head—are available through Amazon.