The Only Movement
No wind,
so the trees stand silent.
No wind,
the grass, the wildflowers,
don’t flutter.
No wind,
it there’s to be any movement
then it’s down to me.
And, right now,
I’m halfway up a hill-climb
at Snake Den Park.
So if you’re a tree,
a blade of grass, a wildflower,
on the trail ahead,
stay calm.
I may not be wind
but I’ll be with you
in a minute.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
