poem: Passing Through the GraysA Chapter by Marie Anzalone"And in the gray of the morning, my mind becomes confused, between the dead and the sleeping, and the road that I must choose" -Moody BluesDirectory of Prof Kang Yu-yi's artwork:http://www.superwork.com/kin_en.htm for MS
Strolling in the cold December rain today, among the evergreens, I am awash in a world of muted grays, spilling over and around and above me- a Master Artist's brush dipped in the color of rising mist, and watercolored across the hills
[Any painter will tell you that "gray" is not a mix of black and white, (as Nature always abhorred Hammurabi's code) but rather the blending of complementary colors, creating soft warm and cool shades, like our lives intersecting with contradictory people and emotions, like us]
and there are so many grays here, each lovely- moss gray, granite gray, mist gray, ice gray, rain gray birch gray, beech gray, spruce bud gray tuft of winter deer hair gray, love gray, and the gray of the silence devoid of a winter wren's melody.
[and pine after the rain was always my favorite scent!]
perhaps my alizarin and ultramarine met your cadmium in just the correct proportion to sketch these schist and feldspar boulders upon which I sit observing delightfully the start-stop-start and crash! of an ice jam in the river
[gold sunlight suddenly illuminating a sandbar to break the gray]
I think, "that wren hadn't sung for us in a while", and the rain drops catch on hemlock spires, catching the light just so, like that, reminding me of the angle of your back when we used to make love in the snow, on mountain tops our love moving in fits and starts, like those icy plates
there is gray with a hint of green, the color of the lichens where we watched the sunset on the rocks in the warm sun and twilight march blues and pinks and reds and yellows... fading at last to warm violet gray, not yet the violent gray'
[the mist softens the clarity of focus through that lens]
when I'd stand and wait for your words to rain down on my skin, like little pieces of granite chipped from the stone of my heart. I tried to wash those grays away with snow, purest white but the stain never quite leaves, does it, once the white is blended by gray? it just fades as more white is added, diminishing in hue.
passing through the grays, today, I observe in wonder and think of you- how much you would have loved to watch this ice jam with me here catching my breath in spaces between the trees, sentinels to every beautiful thing I ever felt for you with the canopy holding those thoughts gracefully, like an angel's arms
[and I'll always think of you when I smell pine trees in the rain]
© 2015 Marie AnzaloneAuthor's Note
Featured Review
Reviews
|
Stats
859 Views
11 Reviews Added on December 28, 2009 Last Updated on August 2, 2015 Tags: "Any painter will tell you that AuthorMarie AnzaloneXecaracoj, Quetzaltenango, GuatemalaAboutBilingual (English and Spanish) poet, essayist, novelist, grant writer, editor, and technical writer working in Central America. "A poet's work is to name the unnameable, to point at frauds, to ta.. more..Writing
|