One Poem by GJ Hart

 

How Knots are Made

 

Winter still

upon the fence

but the sun is up

and hiding behind the pine,

shy to be found so hot

and doors not opened

since October, are open

and though left orderly,

the garden hose is knotted

and tight and you,

reading at the kitchen

table as I bend to setting it

straight - 

 

untouched

all these months -

what strange workings

of neglect- not wind

or wildlife - the hollow

retch of filthy water

as I work each knot

against itself, threading

hand through hand,

noticing the pine's

first buds like tiny lights

as it finally falls

into my arms -

 

all my efforts

inside me now -

I straighten painfully

and find the white birch

bound with vines

and the sun so bright

I see only myself

in the kitchen window -

standing, wondering what

you are reading -

and how long

this year's summer

will last.

GJ Hart currently lives and works in London and has had work published in Isacoustic, Nine Muses Poetry, The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, The Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.