chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

Tag Archives: gray

found poem: rain

found poem: white

found poem: dark

found poem: architect

found poem: I’d always

found poem: MORNING

found poem: put on

found poem: mud

found poem: gray

found poem: Winter’s



the gray…

postcard to morning*

crocheted jute

gray me for morning
roll me for dawn
cup up the dreaming
to drench these beginnings
to pour me a story
I haven’t imagined
to paddle the runnel
through fog to the light
where the grayness
is hardened to charcoal
and graphite and offered
on parchment to sketch
the gray feathers
of poem’s first flight

© j.i. kleinberg

*Since the August Poetry Postcard Fest ended, I’ve continued the practice of writing a postcard-size poem each morning — a first draft that may later be edited or combined into a more polished poem. This is today’s.

Dear gray,

greyscaleYou look gorgeous on fox, rabbit, poodle, dove. You’re handsome in granite and pearls and hair. Your silvers and charcoals and smokes and taupes enliven artwork, stones, mountainsides, elephants, whales. Your ashen coat fits the mouse, the old mare.

But listen, gray: it’s March. Your leaden weight bears down from cindery skies. Your dusty fog obscures the trees. Your battleship clouds scrape along the hilltops. Day after day. After day.

Step aside, gray. Please. You’ve had your months. Don’t be greedy. Make a little room for blue. For pink and peach, for purple. Let the first verdant burst of spring feel the sun as it muscles up from the saturated earth and the wintered twig.

Take a break, gray. Remember the old adage about absence? Don’t abandon us altogether. Just give color a chance. Please.

Respectfully, desperately,

%d bloggers like this: