I walked beside that gray river;
fog blurred the trees of the far bank.

The grass and ground were wetted down
as if the clouds had crashed that night
and slathered moisture on the world
as a damp mop dragged over might.

It’s cold and wet and as subdued
as a painting in shades of gray.

Have you seen the world look painted —
as if it were more art than real?
Then you may know what I walked through —
its look rang false, but – oh – that feel.

It felt like every nerve burned bright
despite that dim, mid-winter scene.