for its ease into morning—
enfolding the night while
unrolling the day—
the color that issues forth the landscape—
where shape evolves into mangroves,
a gray heron waking,
the roosting egret and sharp-shinned hawk.
Where sun paints the sea’s first basecoat
before myriad layers in shades of blue.

For its quiet accord, let us praise gray. No color
but nuance, said Paul Verlaine. Painters choose
gray for gray never fights:
blended with white, it is satin and silver,
the graceful gowns that glow in Dutch paintings.
Blended with black, dark mysteries of Rembrandt,
gradations of shadows to luminous light.
And let us commend gray, its ultimate soulfulness,
the monochrome palettes of Whistler, Picasso,
the wide range of hue from mother to war.

Let us bless gray for the clouds’ black play,
the silver-gray splay of light after storms,
of mountains grayed and flattened by haze
or fingers of smoke, their charcoal smudge,

mist over water, the rain and snow,
dew in clear globes on the swelling bud,
the skies of feathers and ostrich plumes.

For its calm simplicity, let us praise gray,
its homespun humility, neutrality, composure.
Gray, most stable, least pushy, reflective,
the color that welcomes, says come, says stay
.

From Still (FutureCycle Press, 2018).
Used with permission.