The gray of the sky
Settles in, like a blanket
Of cold, wet wool.
It crept into my dreams
Last night,
Lacing them with the sadness
This kind of gray
Can bring.
Waking too early, unable to return,
Unwilling to return
To the dreams that persisted.
Receiving instead the
Black of night, that became the
Gray, of this morning.
Gray skies make a dull backdrop
For bare trees.
Branches and limbs jutting out and up
Into the gray, looking for blue.
Their leafless arms reach high,
Waiting to be restored, to be
Renewed in the warmth
Of spring.
I wait, too.
Funny how those branches, exposed,
resemble my system, enclosed.
I curl down and in,
Wanting to return to sleep,
But I can hear the birds singing,
And I know that even though
The gray persists today,
Blue is just a few dreams,
And mornings,
Away.
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