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
Rob's Lit-Bits 
I never knew grey could be the colour of hope… 🙂
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?!
But nuance and mystery are the cloaks of poets – not weird at all. (Okay, maybe a little.) 🙂
Ha! I’m glad you enjoyed my “greyness.”