Godly gray does not unearth.
Nor the eloquent, brushed by reflections tenfold, their toes dipping in angel dust.
Nor lifelong sincerity to muddy, soggy grass, shielding a rusty John Deere tricycle from light drizzle.
The Mrs. sees nothing.
Only repeat.
Only patterns.
Face drawn, sunken cheek's lungs can move you.
But it is not real.
The gorgeous eyes move, but the red, moist rumbling is merely a spokesperson.
Godly gray does not unearth.
The earth itself still holds whispers of time and God.
Godly gray with no stream, not even a wisp of morning dew captured by age old brown logs stacked waist high by the dog kennel.
These men who do not seek the answers are the closest to them.
But ever onward our lady planet hides, and her secrets cannot be challenged.