“FOR MY SAKE”

A mahogany brown

mourning cloak butterfly

knows the best of me.

It flutters the creamy edges

of its wings

as I do a sprig of grass

between my fingers.

In the peace between

showy white pokeweed clusters

and the pyramidal spires

of meadowsweet,

peace accedes a sylvan space.

I've had enough

of death in empty houses

or barren rooms

where only nurses gather.

Let me die

in green pasture,

summer rolling over me

like dew-cooled lava,

life so redolent, so ardent,

it can't help but surge

even as I weaken.

A gorgeous flower

would crest my fallen shadow.

In a torrent of growing,

I'd hear my own rebirth.

“THE LIFE OF THE WEATHER”

Late January,

the roof, the pine-tops,

were smothered in snow.

Your outside footprints

sunk as deep as your depression.

It took half of April

to finally lighten your mood.

Sure, weeds sprouted 

before the lawn, before the garden,

but you were a weed yourself once,

unlovely and in people’s way,

but you finally blossomed.

Now, you’re old enough

to go where the weather takes you –

warm to all in summer,

reflective in the fall,

and all out done with life

in mid-winter gloom.

Once you made your own seasons,

outside of the actual weather:

love, marriage, children, a home,

vacations in the mountain, at the sea-side.

Now, the outside 

that makes itself felt inside 

is all that’s left you.

Late January,

you’re dying.

Mid-April,

you’re cured.

It’s a miracle 

or it’s the calendar –

whatever works for you.

John Grey is an Australian poet, and U.S. resident, who was recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Grey’s latest books, Covert, Memory Outside The Head, and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Grey has work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Rathalla Review and Open Ceilings.