Gray the day
wet with rain
fog wrapped and dripping
a heavy hand.
The process to be worked
the step by step by step
the small pool of light right there
at your feet
all that can be seen.
waits patiently for your hand;
no promises, there were never really any.
The story was a good one
but the ending was not yours to write.
You are barely all you ever had
to start with, and to end with.
The basketful of hope like so much down
cast to the wind
some to fly and warm another
some flies in your face.
It is not a sentence for the convicted.
It is not a reward for perfection or imperfection hidden.
life among the living
if you choose to live it.
It comes with messiness, with joy, with sorrow
with triumph and tragedy
and so little explanation.