What is it to stand beneath the gray
and dream of something heavier—
a weight not of burden but of blessing,
soft, unrelenting, falling?
The ash, gray as uncertainty,
speaks a language without syllables,
settling on leaves,
on roads,
on the curve of a bird’s wing
as if daring us to forget
what once was green.
But still, I lift my face to sky,
knowing rain will come.
Not as promise—
it has never promised—
but as answer
to a question we didn’t know
we were asking.
And when it comes,
it will wash the silence
from the branches,
the grief from the soil,
the weight from our shoulders.
And in that moment,
even the gray
will seem beautiful—
for it held the space
until the rain could arrive.
