The hush between daylight and rain,

A wandering cloud.

It lives in the smoke that rises at dawn,

In thick wool sweaters old and worn.

The language of cities at dusk,

Of iron bridges and abandoned rust.

It lingers softly in grandfather’s hair,

A quiet reminder that time was there.

Gray walks gently with winter skies,

Hiding silver secrets from curious eyes.

It hums in the shadows of unfinished roads,

In silent notebooks and forgotten codes.

The color of patience and stone,

Standing strong while standing alone.

It sleeps in the ashes after the flame,

Still carrying whispers of what became.

Gray paints oceans before the storm,

Cool and distant, solemn yet warm.

It curls in the feathers of aging doves,

And settles in hearts that remember old loves.

Not empty, nor faded away,

Balancing darkness and brightness each day.

It speaks without shouting, calm and wise,

A thoughtful color beneath muted skies.

Gray is the moon behind drifting haze,

The dust of memories lost in a maze.

Neither black nor white, but beautifully in-between,

The softest color the world has seen.