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