Anything But Gray

I have to do something about the pervasive sadness
of light or its absence, steal the last butterscotch disc
of sun, squirrel it away in my right cheek, or find
productive, cheerful things to do in the gloom.
Maybe this is a good time to take up knitting,
which seems unavoidable. Or doing the dishes —
really launching into doing the dishes — would be
a useful thing. It’s satisfying, the pruning of my fingers,
the lingering green Palmolive, a scent memory of
having worked, having done something other than
sitting here checking the window for anything but gray.

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