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Grey

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.
Your daughter, balloons about her,
blows out the candles,
and eats her cake
and your second daughter’s on the floor
playing house and with her doll,
and your relatives laugh, they take delight
and your smile sails along.
You have done well for yourself,
a solid man with a caring wife,
and your friends are there…

Yet who knows when this grey
had crept into your life
so softly, so imperceptibly, gradually,
not pinned to a single day.
What has happened to wonder, elation?
Beauty no longer moves you.
What makes the child linger long
you pass quickly with a good word or nod.
You might half-heartedly applaud,
insensitivity behind what’s strong.

You’re reliable
as a floor of solid oak
and all are pleased with solid oak –
though each day’s like every other day
and grey holds sway.

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