The day is a snow-grey, low-cloud,
slush-slick sort of place
to rest a weary summer ache
strained from carrying the weight
of your sunrise.
I fit well here amidst the snowbanks
and soot-soaked roads,
free to be mysterious and black
when thoughts take me down into the shadows.
It's cool where we are, this trail and I -
echo-y and still.
Not a place for a sun ray as bright as you.
But I think you would be surprised to know
that this grey place carries its own cloak of light.
True, it is not your brand of golden spikes
that burn my skin,
but more like smoke that bends the trees to bear,
suddenly lifting from the forest floor,
tricking the eye into seeing flame
where only vapor and evenings past
have come before.