See we are both gray—
you lightly streaked, I a gray more advanced
and total, unlike many — most — gray-concealing peers
unsure whether to give their jet and gold and fun reds to gray,
as if our flesh and faces were not gray
in their own fashion. Is our gray distrust
sheer fear of death — carrying gray as mark
of shortened earthly time, or just a gray dislike
as if too blurred — too much a shuffling — gray a mix
of cleaner black or bolder white. Gray is mist.
Gray is today’s harbor water.
Gray is this morning’s cloud cover.
Gray is the varied hue of half the towers
across the cold bay. Gray is the paint
on our house, the chin of our dog. Gray
is where I’m going and gray is where I am.
My friend, I am happy for your gray.
We laugh at how we welcome our gray.
For us gray hair is comfort
with self. Crones stand gray.
Perhaps our gray means we know
what we want. Gray is simple.
Gray is my nature and yours.
Our gray unites us women willing
to be like this gray hour, come as is.
We wonder if our gray will silver?
For now, we are gray.
Your gray beautiful strands lighten
my mood. Friend, you understand me, gray.
Pamela Hobart Carter loves Seattle as much for its water and mountains as for its bustle and creativity. She explores the Emerald City daily while walking her dog. Carter used to be a teacher who wrote on the side. Now she is a writer who teaches on the side.