Glass Poetry Press

Volume Five Issue Two

John Grey


The leaf-mold is offering up surprises. Today, a solitary narcissus. Tomorrow, perhaps, the dead come back to life and in their prime. The yellow dog is scratching at that hapless flower. Maybe what he buried, also, is just waiting for his burrowing Jesus-like command. Those still living are just waking in the old house, find that sun across the headboard agrees with their assertion, that today's late April, that the earth around them is a great hollow bell, waiting for this tongue of people to ring the valley finally clear of night. Birds gather at the feeder. Song-birds thank us with a giddy trill. Blue-jays hack loud and obvious that this is nothing less than what their pomp and pageantry deserve. We both sit up on cue. Our rusty mouths turn away but our eyes meet. How many mornings now is this? I've forgot to keep up with my counting. You know the years but the dawns elude you. The narcissus has the answer. Likewise the ones who are not here are brutally aware how long it's been. The dog is like an abacus of clambering out the door to see what is, what's been. I hug you tight and warm. Everything's keeping time but us.