By John Grey
Palm trees are not new to her, but now she lives with one: a long leaning trunk, a crown of leaves, indifferent to the calendar. Unlike the elms, the oaks, she cannot gauge her mood by them. No rush to bud, no blossoming, no contentment at the fade, the fall, of beauty, no resolve of bare winter boughs. Strange how what doesn’t waver reminds her of all she’s lost, like warmth that never knew a cold day in its life, serenity unaware of how it’s earned. But she won’t be packing up, going home any time soon. She’s made her decision. Her life was once seasonal. Now it’s actual. No coming, no going, just here.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Dalhousie Review and Blood And Thunder. Work upcoming in Hollins Critic, Redactions and California Quarterly.