Night unfolds like a skein
of silk. But its beauty
brings me no relief.
The stars are so far away,
they can give no
warmth or compassion.
The moon feels no grief.
I understand death
when we are old and lame,
but when the young die,
there is only God to blame.
My wife was only forty.
I stare at the distant stars.
But what good is it
to curse the empty air,
when no one is there?
George Freek is a poet/playwright living in Belvidehas recepeared in ‘Trade West Review’; ‘The
Cape Rock; ‘Limestone Journal’ ‘Sentinel Poetry Quarterly’; and ‘The Rockhurst Review’. His
plays are published by Playscripts, Inc.; Lazy Bee Scripts; and Off The Wall Plays.