It’s Not Black and White, It’s Gray
Birds twirl in the sky like sheets of loose paper
As raindrops fall in the absence of my footsteps.
The clouds marbled and wispy
As I whisper,
That I’m wistful.
New trees arch toward their spotlight
While dewy kisses plant on my cheeks
From the darker side of the sky.
I like getting wet, getting muddy
The raw grit of the Earth.
Pour down in buckets
To cleanse and to coat
Leave me soaking and silent on this street.
I’m happy here, alone and cold with you.
I found the place you wanted me to,
Where it’s okay to be gray.
For just like the sky,
So am I.
Purpose and Prose 