Everything about this morning is gray;
the mountains are charcoal etchings
scribbled across a confederate canvas,
even the mist rising off the river is hazy
and dull. Naked branches raise stark
limbs, sway and bow in the wind
like Pentecostal repenters
in a tent revival meeting.
The color has drained from the sky,
and the sun hovers overhead
a dry white wafer swallowed
by a thick cloak of cloud.
Traffic is slow, it's always this way
the first day it snows and mom
is on my cell saying she prays for me.
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