John Grey’s Group Poetry
A BIRD FLIES INTO OUR WINDOW
The bird thumped three or four times
against the window,
had no idea that
the room in which we sat
was not some extension
of the sky.
Its last attempt
saw it slapped back
as hard as it gave.
Then it dropped into the darkness below.
The way home’s not always easy.
Not when there are other homes in the way.
The daffodil has had enough of winter.
It makes a stand for living things
against the lifeless grip of the season.
Six petals, one for each degree above freezing,
counter the threat of coming darkness,
plunging temperature and another
cold helping of snow.
All day, it opens itself up to the world.
It delights in the modest sunshine.
It laps up the thawing ice.
While we hibernate inside the house,
its imagined spring is real enough
for that tender budding to survive.
Remember. this was the flower
pinned to your breast
at last year’s cancer charity.
Everybody wore one.
Like the snow, cancer did not recede.
And yet, the simple emblem
still felt victorious.
THE SUN AND I
The sun shines
on the patio
where I sit,
reading a book,
sipping a coffee,
enjoying the rays,
but it sure does
feel like an arrangement.