Anew by John Grey

If only

I was like these branches,

yesterday, pathetic and bare,

today with sap running,

and buds popping.

 

If the wind would

pick me up,

the fragrances indulge

my nostrils,

and my voice,

like my eagerness,

come out in a rush.

 

I sit beneath

an oak tree

in transformation,

telling myself

to do something, anything,

as long as it’s anew.

About the Poet:

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 Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.