Musings at Dusk (After Mei Yao Chen) My wife is now dead. Across the table, I look at an empty place. The stars, billions of them, have already yielded to their fate. I watch dead leaves fall into the river to float I don’t know where. I don’t care. Can my wife’s ashes exist there? I hope not. It’s not a lovely spot. From his tree a raven’s cry mocks me. Then with the last light, he disappears into this compassionless night.
In Imitation of Li Shangyin I watch a girl with golden hair swing down the street, but we will never meet. I’m too old for that. Still, the flesh stirs, as a blossom stirs, but the unfolding is too long. I stare at the trees, as they lose their leaves. It is simply nature, not some fatal disease. There are many things I’ve forgotten. I look at the apples falling from my ancient tree. The aroma is sweet, but the apples are rotten.
George Freek’s poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews.