Sun in quarantine, wispy clouds too embarrassed
to rain. The earth has turned gray.
Gray’s safer, they’re saying: older and duller.
Green would shock us. It could spread.
Keep cheer in a gray area, neither here nor there.
Walking’s allowed, but be careful:
gray jacket, gray sneakers, every house painted gray
on a Dead End lane, gray asphalt, gray utility poles,
more gray hair.
I turned a corner today. Pink poked me
in the eye: little bud fists smashed
red-white-&-lavender into knockout pink,
set fragile petals fluttering. (Flirting?)
Is beauty allowed?
Blossoms have burst
from branches on a gray tree.
A gray door creaks open. A gray man
squints at me: grizzled, suspicious.
“I love your tree,” I call from across the street.
“It’s not mine. A neighbor cares for it.”