Live Grey

Live Grey

Chop the head off live, and the tail off grey—you’re left with letters of grieve.

 

A child will notice only the orange kitten

in a basket full of grey ones, but when the orange

one leaves, you see much of the world is grey.

 

As hair turns grey, lungs turn grey.

Cancerous spots, grey as onion rot,

find their way into life’s layers.

 

The woods are grey before and after leaves.

The spine of a dead pine becomes a fish skeleton

in winter. Grey deer graze foggy fields.

 

The sky is grey more often than blue.

A grey sky calms the nerves. Vision is clearer

without glare and fanfare. Details distinguish

 

tuna and titmouse, haddock and heron,

shark and owl. What isn’t grey turns

grey at night. Half of every year is dark.

 

Though at first you feel your head and tail

have been chopped off, the loss-shock settles into grey.

Ever-present, like gravity—nourishing, necessary.

What are you looking for?