the day comes to me gray, and speaks
 of distant shores and tidal wreck;
 we are no more than spray that lands
 upon the rocks, the shore, a deck --

 a bit of motion brief, a wash
 that slow recedes back into time;
 a vapor of belief, that's gone,
 or ossifies to frost

 and rime

 she comes to me gray and aging
 like she wasn't when i knew her

 beneath the clouds of autumn
 in the silence of my yard

 i spread my arms to greet her
 but she walks on towards the shadow

 for there is nothing more to say
 we didn't say before

 the fading years they are our base
 we build on them or nothing

 and layers underneath aren't such
 we get to lay again

 she passes me gray and sorrowful
 like i've become in wishing

 that angel cloud shapes floating by
 could alter what

 has been