Published September 1, 2021
by John Grey
(Johnston, Rhode Island, USA)
The ice was glistening,
the young girl wore a gleaming
light gray satin dress,
swiveled and swerved,
spun descending spirals
with her hips.
Youth and limbs,
beauty and blade:
the chill of winter
was not always cruel.
You married her eventually.
You've been happy enough
but seldom inspired.
The lake still freezes.
But she's hung up her skates.
You can hold her close
but no longer see her from afar.
Biography
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Soundings East, Dalhousie Review, and Connecticut River Review. Latest book, Leaves On Pages is available through Amazon.
Previously published in Wax International:
"Meditation at Night" by Marina Jarra
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