Dawn unfastens the point of being here –
a shimmering globe rotating –
newly acquired light and heat and air.
Quiet breakfast
then a walk
sipping the vin rose of the morning,
a feeling hastily translated
from the woman on my arm –
a ledge of sandstone,
a forest nook,
and time, a small favor
that we forget to ask.
We could be mistaken for dew
except we hold on longer.
Or hummingbirds,
buzzing, fluttering,
distancing ourselves from small talk
but embracing the hunger
of small unimportant lives.
Person to person,
tree to tree –
and a running stream of course –
running on this spot.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Nebo, Euphony and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Leading Edge, Poetry East and Midwest Quarterly.