No – not the grey
of ashes
out of which the Phoenix rises
nor the ashen grey
of a head sometimes
whose eyes glow
winsomely, with wisdom.
Who knows when this grey
crept into your life,
so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually
one couldn’t pin it to a single day,
single occurrence or event.
You look at your wife: memory presumes
it knows her, overlooking her blooms.
You’re in the bathroom now
and look in the mirror: what does this face
say? The grey about it smells
like over-accumulation, overstimulation…
All those books,
all those movies,
all that knowledge and information,
all those experiences blooming
like mazes of elaboration
you called the fullness of life.
They weren’t. You see today
they had conceived numbness and grey.
In simplicity, a still heart
are the fullness of life
and the throbbing vitality of your wife.
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