A gift of grey

Satisfied, full, these sated skies

their grey so whimsical and warm

e’en though with ardor the wind tries

my sallow soul it’s hearth to storm.

* * *

Generous in her briskly breath

an offering of still-born doubt,

reminds me of what is not death

and with strong grace my sadness routs.

* * *

Till now she’s spurned all but love

her bosom warm in shattered sleep,

to wash my brow with rain, above,

and echoes through the cleansing deep.

* * *

And in these moments, damp and dear,

are pressed upon my spirit, warm,

an invitation to mystic, clear,

full brightness of her grey breast, charms.

Photo courtesy of 214wainwrights.wordpress.com

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4 thoughts on “A gift of grey

    1. It is to mystics! If you can believe it, Yakima makes me depressed in the summer. Too much in-your-face happy-clappy sunshine. Nothing opaque. Nothing subtle. Nothing indirect. Nothing of nuance or suggestion. Just push your face in it sunshine. Is that weird or what?!

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