The Gift of Gray

We tend to think of being gifted in black-and-white terms,
The artists or the athletes, or perhaps the academics. But perhaps
We too often overlook the quieter gift, the gift of gray:
The heart-centered ones. They may be easy to miss, but once found,
Light illuminates from their chests in the most tender
And comforting glow. They are the ones, perhaps, with their heads
Bowed downs over books and journals, or smiling to themselves
At the sound of a songbird. They are the ones, perhaps,
With few friends, but holding those precious loved ones dear.
Tears fall easily onto their cheeks, in the same way joy comes easily
At the sight of a dog or the way a leaf falls onto the ground.
Pressure might shake them, the noise from the world might
Upset them; perhaps they are not the straight A students,
The societal success stories, the gold medal-winners,
But oh, how they feel, how they try, how they love.
Perhaps they are the nurses working long hours,
Breaking their backs to help heal, or the counselor who tries
Because they, too, have been there. Perhaps they are the story-tellers,
Or the people-watchers, or the volunteers who give their time
Without recognition. Perhaps they are the mothers, or the fathers,
Or the uncles and aunts who have no children of their own
But would take a bullet for their nieces and nephews.
Perhaps they are the ones who take the time for self-care,
Perhaps they are the ones filled with the most self-doubt.
The heart-centered ones may be easy to miss, but once found,
Light illuminates from their chests in the most tender
And comforting glow, as they touch the world with quiet devotion.