The sky started

As gray as

The rinse bowl

For an artists

Brushes absent of

Color containing many

A parasoles opened

Casting opaque shadows

Everything is muted

As though time

Has turned down

Its own volume

Sleepiness persists here

Daybreak takes effort

Unlike Christmas morn

Even birdsongs lay

Absent like a

Cut telephone line

All I hear

Is my own

Sip sip sip

And grass growing