leaves drip from branches,
their green days,
even that brief romance
with pastel colors,
all behind them,
as they spiral toward
the graves of their ancestors.
Wild flowers have long
retraced their steps back into the earth,
taking their perfumes with them,
grasses merely imitate grass.
The dead rot in wounds where they lay.
It’s supposed to be cyclical…
a cruel joke on a neighborhood crumbling
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Mudfish and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.