Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
-Robert Frost

And some days are never gold but are gray from beginning to end.  Gray skies drop gray rain past gray trees into gray puddles amongst the gray-brown grass.  Hands will not be anything but cold, and even soft pink lamplight and warm buttered toast cannot dispatch a certain chilliness about the soul.  Sometimes I love the gray days.  Other times I want just to know why.  But questions are not guaranteed answers. 

Not yet.

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