A GAME OF THAW
A warm day in February
but the birds and flowers are having none of it.
There's no rush to bud, to mate.
Only I am fooled by the suddenly
intense morning sun,
and water rolling down the eaves,
and yard shapes that are once more details.
Despite another fearful dream,
dawn strokes my optimism
like a waking cat, revels in the purr.
If winter can be tricked,
then why not soured relationships.
If the mind can rise up
from eight hours of oblations
like an elm seduced by heat and light,
then who knows who might call today,
and what they'll say.
Someone at a distance beyond hope,
a soul loose and forever drifting,
a voice dwelling in months of silence -
why can't they be that one befuddled crocus
that almost screams into the receiver,
"It's time to begin again."
If it can happen to the weather,
then maybe the hungry will be fed,
the wounded heal,
the battles turn the dial to peace.
It's mild enough for me to say,
"Hi, how's it been?" -
to whisper "yes" and then again, "yes."
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in West Trade Review, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.