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The Grey
Still, how nice the gray feels,
On an early morning,
Cold birds fly like forgetions,
Swift wings cutting double edge
In a conscientious sky.
Still, how nice the gray feels,
On the warm-rain streets,
Tough boots working,
Copper penny hits the ground.
Still, how nice the gray feels,
Hard cut stone lights the cliff edge
With imaginary sparkle,
Can you hear the wind blow?
Tall birches sway.
Still, how nice the gray feels,
On the tall buildings,
Carrying up the Ivy
In there continental beaks,
Calm orange flowers accent the floor.
Still, how nice the gray feels,
When small dusk swaths,
And timid lights cover the bushes,
Bright majesties take flight.
Fields sway, almost ominous.
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