Whole Rivers of Light

barely visible on this gray rimmed day
just under the farthest cloud,
the one full of rain,
there is a hint of blue.
If I listen carefully,
I can almost hear it
splashing past the outer perimeters
of heaven.

Blue sings
with a lilting soprano;
there are days
it even laughs out loud

but gray never lifts its voice
even though it is kin to silver,
which whistles whenever it can
or dances gaily upon the waters.

I wonder some day
if I should make my peace with gray,
but its silence as it broods
threatens like a petulant lover.

So I wait,
because of that azure sliver of sky
wait for the pouring forth,
somewhere there are whole rivers of light.