The gray hangs silent, still.
Winter drapes are heavy on the hooks
where summer lace once
flirted with the sun.
Only memories let the light in.
It must have been a day like this
when da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa;
dark brush strokes
on a day of storm.
His fingers felt the rain, his face
a map of concentration
until that moment when
the sun would shine again.