it is Sunday evening,
the snow has stopped falling,
finally,
and I find myself leaning
on the bathroom counter,
staring into my own eyes,
my hair has gone wild,
waving this way and that,
there is no control today,
and I smile at its lack of
order,
and there are grays in there,
thirty-two years old
and there are grays in there,
and there they are again,
this time in my beard,
which is getting long and
out of control itself,
and my green eyes look back at me,
with neither confidence or
self-doubt,
they are just there,
as I am here,
and Buk sits on the back
of the toilet,
inspiring another reflective
poem…
Darrell Gahm
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-grays/
