One more day of clouds
   the color of steel,

   hardly a color at all.
   On a day like this

   any creature with half
   a brain would linger

   in the burrow, wait
   for the sun, and sleep.

   But I am sixty-five;
   I know how light can fade.

   I will go for a walk
   in the woods, down

   to that meadow
   by the river, and there

   I will dip my hands
   into flowing waters

   and remember who I am
   and where the river goes.

   R.W. French