The stars anticipate the light,
disappear before dawn.
Warblers also
prepare for what’s to come.
Their first notes
loosen the lake trout
from their shadows.
Trees hold out their branches
like palms of hands,
foreseeing not begging.
A woodchuck stirs.
Deer gather in the grasses
at the edge of the woods,
get close up with their hunger,
underplay their fear.
It takes more than the hint
of a new day
to get me going.
I need a room ablaze,
a shine in my eyes
akin to heaven’s.
I don’t apologize
for being a yawn or two
behind nature.
I am that which all of me depends upon.
And I am willing to wait.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves on Pages, Memory Outside the Head and Guest of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
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