Pale, ethereal,
no need to speak,
its skin tone is its voice.
Beckoning from curtain fold,
from end of bed,
it weaves fear and yearning together
in a cloak of shadow,
desperate love around
the glacial echo of sadness.
Stem of life.,
foots of death,
my leaves shudder,
its boughs creak.
“What are you doing here?”
is the question that forms
in my head—
but oozes softly from
its chalk-white lips.
John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Rathalla Review. Latest books, Covert, Memory Outside the Head, and Guest of Myself are available through reputable retailers. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.