trade in gold for grey,
make a sacrifice of the captured sky
in a net of scattered clouds?
or would I hold myself as wholly still,
satisfied in the grasp of sinking grass
that a mind and pulse can’t fill?
well I might be a traitor;
nature has my heart
but the leaves are ill when we’re apart
& the sky with its sun
just welcomes in,
& so, it’s true
without you in,
the glimmer of the world wears thin.