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
and frown

until that moment when
she smiled
assuring all
the sun would shine again.

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