The
sky is
the kind
of gray
that
it
gets in
the fall -
even here
where
the temperature
barely changes
and
the trees
keep their leaves -
The sky
and
the air
and
the breeze
make me
ache -
like
I'm waiting
for
something
that
never
really
gets here -
like
I'm
yearning
for something
that
I can
barely
imagine
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem