A Gray Area - Frances Rippey

Gray Ground.


How may that be?

How may the ground be gray?


It can be white with snow or green with seas of grass or reflective with puddles and pools.

It can be brown with mud or yellow with drought. Even ash is white, deceptively cold after a magnificent heat.


Then again

how may you be gone?


You can be here or there, at school or work or at a friend’s—in a home of brick, of wood, or of white paint like ours.

You can be wrapped in my arms or tucked safe in a bed or snuck out with your silly friends in the French quarter.


But you may not be gone.


That is not a place.

It has not longitude nor latitude nor tall oaks to cover it.


If you may be gone then I suppose it follows the ground may be gray.

All things considered, I’m surprised it’s not purple.

Written from “Untitled (Michael Where Are You?)”

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