I. Observations
The blank sheet of snow
Is already turning grey
As the portentous sky
And rooftops of slate,
The now-trodden paths
And the grid of the highway,
The branches of trees
Where the junco birds play,
The fog from the breath
As it billows away,
The smoke on the river,
The stacks and the chimneys,
The switches and platforms
And sides of the train,
The tall office towers
And the window frames,
The fences and pipes
And satellite plates,
The bridges and schools
And commercial displays,
The stacked blocks and wet stone
And graffiti base paint,
The clock hands and tire rims
And locked storefront grates,
Garage doors and steeple tops,
Antennas and fire escapes,
Concertina and chain link,
Derricks and cranes,
Swingsets and air vents
And factory gates,
The water in cylinders
Seen through the rain.
II. Meaning
Grey is the stigma you must overcome,
The mud in the search for the truth,
What are the ashes but what has been?
The elegance of loss, the gunmetal wisdom,
The vicissitudes of sophistication,
A mind too heartless, a spirit confused,
Polarities neutralized, purities soiled,
Sharpnesses scraped away,
To accept without discernment,
The shine that is unyielding, that pulls all inside,
What can, in a moment of sun, be undone.
