Passages

Passages by Greg Gregory is a quiet triumph—a collection of 29 poems composed over the span of 25 years that read like weathered journal entries from a life deeply lived and deeply observed. As someone who spends a great deal of time in the natural world, I found myself struck again and again by Gregory’s ability to connect the cycles of the earth with the emotional rhythms of human experience.

His poems are steeped in a kind of poetic humility. They don’t demand attention but rather ask us to slow down, breathe, and notice. In “Ghost Town,” Gregory writes:

“The desert twilight briefly sings / wind music through broken wood.”

It’s a perfect example of his subtle, evocative style—suggesting not only a place but a mood, a history, and a kind of haunting beauty. It’s the kind of line that lingers long after you read it.

Nature is not just a backdrop in these poems—it’s a participant. The beach, the desert, the garden, the sky—all of them mirror human emotion or provide a space for it to unfold. In “Composting,” Gregory captures this connection beautifully with the line:

“They stir up scents and turn with / crumbled leaves under the / empty blue, a white cloud, brief / warmth, the next breath, next heartbeat.”

The mundane task of turning compost becomes something sacred and seasonal, reminding us of how rooted we are in the physical world.

I was especially taken with “Heirlooms,” a poem that layers antiques and objects with memory and meaning. Gregory’s attention to detail—lace, silver boxes, potpourri—reads like a still-life painting, rich with texture and shadow. The poem closes with a sense of reverence for the past that feels earned rather than sentimental.

What stands out most in Passages is Gregory’s willingness to linger. He doesn’t rush. There’s a meditative quality to his voice, like someone who’s spent years walking the same trail and always finds something new to notice. In “Along Drake’s Beach,” he writes:

“All shells, the remains, the final poems / of creatures protecting their soft parts, like us.”

It’s a gentle but profound metaphor, suggesting how vulnerable we all are beneath our defenses.

Though the poems vary in subject and setting, they are united by a consistent tone—thoughtful, calm, sometimes melancholy, often luminous. Gregory seems less concerned with making grand poetic statements and more focused on illuminating small truths. That restraint is a strength.

This is a book to savor slowly, preferably with a warm drink and a view of the sky. Gregory’s voice feels honest and seasoned. He reminds us that the personal is never separate from the natural—that time moves through us just as the tides move across the sand. For readers who find peace in the quiet beauty of the world, Passages offers the kind of reflection we all need more of.