Artist's Skies

I dont think it's ever summer.
Not for the poets and their words
nor the artists and their pencils.
Not for the readers and their worlds
nor for the actors and their faces.
It's always some shade of winter,
in cold swirling grays.
Such a deceptive beauty sometimes
that makes you want to close your eyes
and dream to other times.
We don't choose such things in our lifetimes
but
we have our destinies thrust upon us.
And sometimes that means
we are artist and poets, or readers and actors.
Either way, we all know the same
gray sky
and how it can make you silent
even on
the loudest looking days.