Gray Days
Christopher Bogart
Gray days suffer in silence,
Suffocate in the stillness of moist air.
They seem to fairly hold their breath
To test their own endurance.
Humidity hangs,
Precariously draped
Over the canopy of trees.
Leaden leaves
Barely breathe,
Suspended as in distant dreams.
Gray days have but a brief and fragile reign.
They await their tortured fate
As steam upon our windowpanes,
Only to be exiled
By the smiling rays
Of a welcoming sun.
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