The world bereft of color
settles into  fields of gray
with no true black or white
but ashy gradations, ad infinitum,
where  Aunt Lillian, who once
could tell you what evil was,
squints into the sun. Shadow
bisects her face;  one side gray,
the other grayer still; and the sky,
no doubt a bird’s egg blue,
photographs off-white, oak leaf
ink blots hang from the dark
tree that stands in a steely sea
of grass, underneath of course,
a mottled sleeping dog,
and the sun just rising
above the garage roof –
or setting – who’s left
to know? – burns
white-hot in the corner
of this old snapshot
that cannot color
my memory with its pallid
landscape, but has engrained
my aunt’s frown into my brain
with its dazzling dusts.