Gray Clouds

This morning, I remembered the gun-metal clouds
that hovered over the Catskills when I drove 17 west.
I could drown in their absence.  Since you died,

I am wrapped in gray wool, the world just a little muffled,
my eyes clouded over, myself not quite here.  I try to wear
bright colors—the deep red of a silk blouse, the Asian
pattern of red and deep blue in the soft folds of my favorite
jacket, the red I am sure will ward off the evil eye. 

So many of the people I love are gone, the ones I believed
protected me from the malevolence that swirls around us. 
I am certain if I wear these clothes this grief, too, will end,
and I will go on to find new color in the world, the flare
of tulips opening their lovely mouths, the yellow flags
of forsythia waving and I in my red jacket that keeps
sprouting holes because I’ve worn it so much, hoping

my jacket will work its magic, that if my students
will write brilliant poems, the muffler of gray wool
will fall away, and I will gather joy in my arms and all
the colors I love–deep red, blue, gold–will swirl
around me like a long velvet cape
that moves when I move, sings when I sing.

© Copyright, Maria Mazziotti Gillan.
All Rights Reserved.