Frozen Waterfall
For once,
temperature
has it over gravity.
The entire waterfall
is suspended in air.
There is no up,
no down,
merely a glistening candelabra
refracting light
to the ice pond below.
Sure,
the frigid cascade
dribbles at its hedges.
But its solid heart
can keep this up.
As all solid hearts do.
Even the ones
not frozen in place.
Alabama Swamp
Sun in perfect bloom,
sandhills of winter,
cypress rooted in deep water,
stands of turkeys
and canna indica,
everywhere a rareness.
a one of a kind,
like scarlet petals of rose mallow,
peaceful in my palm,
wild everywhere else.
The Wine of Another Day’s End
Twilight ambles across the lawn,
through the garden, up the stairs,
to the porch where our glass-gripping
fingers, our shimmering wine, await.
We’re the perfect target:
man and woman taking refuge
in the last of the day, celebrating
life together with the strength and
flavor of what local grapes can do.
The wine lifts the pulse a little.
The dark goes gentle on us.
Two glasses have the sound in them
but it’s our hearts that clink together.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.
