Last Poem of May
Outside the crowded hours,
intricate as Italian masks,
we pour a straw-colored wine.
Its surface shimmers like hummingbirds.
We drink in the open moment.
We send our breaths deep into the glass
and we remember.
The last edges of heaven
in the afternoon light disappear
like the smile of a Cheshire cat
into its lost landscape.
Life hangs in the air,
just about to fall.
It leaves no footprints.
Greg Gregory works in educational media
although his first love has always been language and the printed
word. He was raised in Los Angeles, lived in the San Francisco
Bay area for awhile, then moved to Sacramento. He loves the
seasonal changes in the bird-rich marshes and rice fields that
still haven’t been developed into subdivisions. He has been
published in California Quarterly, Rosebud, Windsor Review
(Canada), Amherst Review, Poetry Nottingham (England), and
others.
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