Shades of Gray
The trees are silvered with ice,
limbs droop, unable to hold
the weight. Some have snapped,
pine sap scents the air
against the backdrop of slate.
The branches sway in the wind
against smoky sky.
Pop, crash, a leaden branch snags
the wires and they bounce in their coats
of ice. The house is quiet, no refrigerator
humming, no heat pump compressor.
The weak sun tries to pierce
the pewter clouds,
makes only enough light to read
by the window.
Up The River 5
Albany Poets
