Forest devours wood
like a crow feasting on road-kill,
clapboard and stump,
press-ganged into the cause of future trees.
Even fireplace bricks, hard as farmers,
mulch their way to rain-pocked clay.
The garden has eloped with wildflowers.
Fence posts dig their own grave.
Only glass and metal take their time.
Window shards and rusty saucepans
defy the beseeching roots,
the insidious minerals of the soil.
It’s eighty years or so
since the family were evicted.
Weather harsh, soil rocky and thin as skin…
northern New England, haughty, unfeeling landlord.
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, U.S. resident. Recently published in the Tau, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Examined Life Journal and Midwest Quarterly.