Grayscale Gratitude

Night’s velvety touch surrounds me.
The cool warmth of presence comes.
Yet, I remain unaware,
peering into shadows rather then
the silvery reflections of exposures,
complaining of dew drenched feet,
rather then drinking in the washings,
allowing its beauty to remain a metaphor of depressions,
never realizing that impressions carve images
on the canvas of my mind.
I shake my brain hoping for erasures of the muddy paints I
have chosen, when satin black and the multi-glimmerings of
grayscale’s vast panorama speak so highly of Night’s grace,
finding interest in the fact that it didn’t choose the limited
palette of ebony and ivory, but mixed white into black and
created a vast middle ground of silver grayscale.
I was oblivious to the silk silver swaddling cloth it placed upon me
Corralling the uncontrollability of my raging arms and kicking legs
which demanded polar scenes, but only stirred up muddy waters.
It wished to teach me to be an artist of the gray silver world.
It promised me that when I accomplished that, it would let
me once again play with colors.



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