In January

By John Grey

To stand barefoot upon the stoop takes nerve,

When winter paints the land in frigid white.

The trees, like aging clocks, no longer serve,

Their stories buried deep beyond our sight.

No footprints mar the frost before your door,

The faithful gone, the rootless lost in flight.

The wind ascends and flails with icy roar,

The horizon blinks in Fauvist morning light.

The sun ignites small movements on the ground.

A fox, a branch, a limb that holds, not breaks.

Though harshness clings and bitter chills abound,

This outdoor world gives more than what it takes.

You love the land more than yourself, and still

That love may thaw what bitterness might chill.

_______________________________

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Bittersweet”, “Subject Matters” and “Between Two Fires” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Flights.