At the close of this grey day,
light splashes across dark hills
igniting them in tangerine,
in fires of amber and rust.
Gratitude is like this—
erupting out of a smoky room,
breathless, blind,
shockingly alive.
Grief too, but the surprise, bitter—
spitting you out, grinding your face
to the clay of loss, firing up
loneliness, again.
I don’t know what to make of it,
much less what to say—
that a grey moment turns golden,
that a fair day, burns.