The brightness of a grey winter sky is blinding.
I can hardly manage a glance out of the window—
not sure I want to anyway.
The bleak greyness spreads its somber shadows
on the brown grass and tangled yard clippings
I failed to discard at the end of summer.

Yet for all the neutral colors of a season
in its twilight,
there’s a hope in the light;
there’s a peace in the hibernation of bulbs and branches;
there’s a sense of calm in a schedule
that slowed down between the bustle of holidays
and the productive growth of spring.

There may not be the bold push
of warm days to extend time outside
or the bursting fragrance
of earth and blooms beckoning me
to partake in their scents,
But neither is there void or death.

Life is still full,
it’s just not fussy.
Nature is still in motion,
it’s just taking time to rest
before inevitably blessing me
with its outstanding show.
I’m still breathing.
I’m just taking time to catch my breath.

The brightness of a grey winter sky is blinding,
but perhaps I needed to look away
for a moment
so I could look within.

Originally published in the 2025 Poetry Diary by Sunday Mornings at the River

SDG
LMB #30