Brown the simple vows we make,
the silence of the cloister;
our poverty through choice.
Brown the inner stillness,
the solitude of gardens;
that quiet inner voice.
Grey is our nostalgia,
the early dawns,
fleeting memories of old.
Grey our inhibitions,
the steady-paced withholding
of the stories not yet told.
White the ancient learning,
our absences of heart.
White the hiding place of
wanderlust, of murderers,
of all we set apart.
Grey the gentle questions,
insistent ones
that know by intuition.
Brown the buried feelings,
the fertile soil of life’s


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s