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Poetry

In the Gray

One gray day chases the next
     all color sucked out of the landscape by the wind
the wind that rushes through the narrowness between buildings
     slips steathily up my sleeve cuffs
     and in the gap at my waist where my sweater rides up under my coat.
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I measure the short hours of the day by the rhythmic lull of NPR
The chime of the clock tower two blocks away
     by which I marked the progress of warm days
     muted by double-paned glass.
Each limb conducts its own retraction
     joints curl in on themselves
     until the chords that connect neck to spine could be plucked in pizzicato.
The tension wears me out,
     wears me down.
I make lists – lists to remind myself of all I want to do
     but can’t make myself stay indoors for when
 days are long and warm:
Thin closets
Mend clothes
Read books
Learn Spanish.
Then, the other day, between marble library columns
     a blue-haired girl crossed my path.
A flourescent yellow ball bounced against the curb,
     the curb splashed piled with snow and splashed with soot from passing cars.
Pink-orange wisps painted the late afternoon sky.
I drink it in – the blue, yellow, pink-orange
     let it quench my color thirst,
     let it pull me forward,
     past the ashen sky, the sandy landscape, the milky New England winter
     until the rush of azure, poppy, forest green repopulate the scenery
    and nourish me into spring.

 

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About catypoole

Caty Poole was born on the East Coast, and grew up on Maui. After working for many years as paralegal in New Jersey, Caty moved to Connecticut to pursue a career in communications, and satisfy her passion for food justice work. She lives in New Haven with her partner and is now the executive director of Massaro Community Farm in Woodbridge.

Discussion

One thought on “In the Gray

  1. Quite lovely! Thanks for this.

    Posted by Tammy | January 26, 2013, 8:36 pm

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