Cantalena

These clouds are from the arctic.
They unnerve me
with apocalyptic unravelings.
I don’t grasp such arcane wisdom.
Night hangs from the branches
in desultory sobriety.
Is it a judgment on my morals
or my cardiovascular system?

Time moves like a muslide.
It carries me with it,
as stars enact their ceremonies
like bats in a cave—
shadows in wandering moonlight,
metamorphing into fossils
in their inscrutable way
from love or fear or dismay.

clouds, apocalyptic, wisdom

About George Freek

I can't make it interesting if there's nothing interesting there. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the most interesting thing in my life is the fact that I write poetry and plays (and often get the poetry published and the plays produced.)

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