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