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The Rower
I wish he wouldn't try
to take that canoe out.
It's such a flimsy craft.
The bottom could crack,
the boat take in water.
It could sink before
he bails one bucket full.
And he's not a strong swimmer.
No way he'd make it back to shore.
Even with the life preserver
strapped tight around the shoulders,
he would still be floating
in that chilly water for hour
after hour, and who's to row
out there to save him.
If he only knew how
his straight back's pressed
hard against my pessimism,
his paddles glide through
the worst that could happen.
It's a lake of the world,
is what I want to tell him.
You do it on your own, in unsafe
vessels so cruelly provided.
To The Ones Who Fill The Feeders
A harsh wind rocks the bird feeders
but still the chickadees, sparrows
cling.
Snow blankets the earth's bounty,
ice stills the lake's heart
and trees are stripped of blessing.
It's deep winter
and the chief food source
is the couple at the window.
No bright scarlet cardinals,
no bossy blue-jays,
it's the small birds that feed today:
those sparrows in their survival cluster,
the chickadee group hopping
from feeder platform to branch and back again
in small family rotation.
A squirrel waits impatiently beneath for spill.
Juncos dart here and there,
scouring out what others miss.
Every creature is finding its way to live.
Some sleep through it,
others nibble on their autumn store.
That couple, at the window,
warm as much observing life
as from old cranky radiators:
all that hunger and its grateful sating,
their giving and what gifts give back.
John Grey
John Grey's latest book is What Else Is There from Main Street Rag and his work has appeared recently
in The Xavier Review, The Malahat Review, Bellevue Literary Review and Birmingham Poetry Review.
Email: John Grey
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