Bloom of Gray (unpublished poem)

for Chloe Viner Collins

Sometimes the day begins

and ends

in a bloom of gray: a static ceiling of clouds,

our minds too paralyzed to imagine the sun.

No colorful birds pass the window,

none pierce the silence with music.

We’re sunk then, you and I,

like stones at the bottom of a sea.

Melancholia dances about us, grabs us

by the hair, grins in our faces.

Tomorrow he may be gone.

But then again, probably not.