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CHANGE FOR THE BETTER
The wind is string quartet.
Haydn, I believe.
Gone are the full-blood symphonies
and worse, the throats of January opera,
so deep, so resonant, the bedroom shook
on its soft rock foundations.
And leaves appreciate, stand to applaud.
Likewise the woodchuck,
an avid music lover if there's
a tuneful breeze to hum.
Gale is at the window, sipping coffee
honeyed over with light.
Can't wait to be outside
now there's a melody to her liking.
And trees, grass, are green for good reason.
Best seats in the house.
THIS FAMILY TREE BUSINESS
I don't sit at the head of the table
though I'm the oldest man left standing.
I've three big sisters. . .
let one of them gravitate
to the matriarchal chair.
I'll slice the baked brown beast
if that's required, and I'll pass
vegetable dishes with perfect
quarterback handoffs
but no way I do anything
to suggest that I'm head
of this family.
There's kids running wild.
They'll grow up and get married,
have babies of their own.
Soon enough the family tree
will be an oak with too many
branches to count
and I don't wish to be
the weary roots that hold that up.
Give me a lower limb,
the one where the poets roost.
Thankfully, my eldest sister
plumps down in the controlling chair
like she was born to it.
She'll sink down in the soil eventually
and newer roots will bury her.
I'll break off in the wind.
I'll be the wind thereafter.
John Grey's latest book is "What Else Is There" from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal. He lives in Rhode Island. (April 2008)
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