George Freek
In Late November
(After Li Shangyin)
As always winter means snow.
Skeletons stare eyelessly
at a desolate sky, searching
among distant stars,
where dreams abide.
Crows look for rotting bones.
But as wind swirls around them,
they scatter like leaves.
Do they seek warmth or food?
I can't interpret
a crows enigmatic moods.
The stars look down,
but not in prayer.
Life is never certain
they seem to say,
for crows as well as men.
Bio
George Freek's poetry has appeared in numerous Journals and Reviews. His poem "Written At Blue Lake" was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize.