Poem: The Gray in the Trees

Gray settles on the land in early morning like despair
The sky gives no clue as to where morning is hiding
And only habit tells us where east and dawn should come
But dawn does not come from the east: it seeps

When the path around the Lake comes clear
The relief from darkness creeps from everywhere
Gray oozes down into the trees, to wait

Winter north forces us to talk to each other warmly
Leaning on each other verbally, for support, and hope
We try to recall how much we like the changing of the seasons

But we cannot remember what we wanted that brought us Gray
We want, instead, for light, and try not to talk about why
People who grew up loving ice and playing hockey, grow old
And move to places that do not know Gray, as we do, who
Love the changing of the seasons when they are not Gray

Sometimes the sun comes bright, harbored by the cold
When Gray is hidden in the trees, we talk to each other
Again, to recall how we like the changing of the seasons
And how nice are cleared walks and driveways unimpeded

We brighten in the folds of our own rationalizations
And find ways to remember those expatriates who came home
From Mesa and Brownsville and Paradise to die here
Where the changing of the seasons means Gray will pause

Until our loves for seasons cause our own lament

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