Winter is here
I can tell.
The marigold stems are brown, not green
summer's most valiant soldiers, defeated,
broken and covered in mold, their heads point to ground
Their flowers, no longer caught within sunlight's gold, droop,
covered in slime, brown and black with rust.
The sky has disappeared and run off with the sun.
The gossip is they've taken passage to New South Wales
and won't return till sometime near Easter.
Instead of limitless sky
they've left us with heavy grey pressing against the ground
filling all the spaces, coating all the colors
muffling our ears, stuffing our heads with colds.
Everything grey, coated and dripping,
Christmas lights, mired and weary within shadeless grey
cannot twinkle, gives only a tired blink.
The horizon has shrunken
ending where drippy windows meet grey walls
the landscape has drowned, and won't return for months.
The ionosphere has shifted, all the radio frequencies are mush.
It's not safe to drive, bright lights disappear swallowed whole.
The sun has cataracts and can't get through,
at midday there is a nacreous glow
our day ruled by a gibbous moon. . .
yet. . .
California foothills hold a promise close to their bosoms,
with water dripping from ground hugging fog
comes a close knit green, a green so fierce and pure
that the leprechauns and pookas must book passage
years in advance, so they may celebrate and dance
on greens so fiercely fine and green
I know
taking strength from the green
that somewhere within this grey,
this featureless grey, hidden within,
gathering strength to escape
are the twin grins of April and May
I can tell.
The marigold stems are brown, not green
summer's most valiant soldiers, defeated,
broken and covered in mold, their heads point to ground
Their flowers, no longer caught within sunlight's gold, droop,
covered in slime, brown and black with rust.
The sky has disappeared and run off with the sun.
The gossip is they've taken passage to New South Wales
and won't return till sometime near Easter.
Instead of limitless sky
they've left us with heavy grey pressing against the ground
filling all the spaces, coating all the colors
muffling our ears, stuffing our heads with colds.
Everything grey, coated and dripping,
Christmas lights, mired and weary within shadeless grey
cannot twinkle, gives only a tired blink.
The horizon has shrunken
ending where drippy windows meet grey walls
the landscape has drowned, and won't return for months.
The ionosphere has shifted, all the radio frequencies are mush.
It's not safe to drive, bright lights disappear swallowed whole.
The sun has cataracts and can't get through,
at midday there is a nacreous glow
our day ruled by a gibbous moon. . .
yet. . .
California foothills hold a promise close to their bosoms,
with water dripping from ground hugging fog
comes a close knit green, a green so fierce and pure
that the leprechauns and pookas must book passage
years in advance, so they may celebrate and dance
on greens so fiercely fine and green
I know
taking strength from the green
that somewhere within this grey,
this featureless grey, hidden within,
gathering strength to escape
are the twin grins of April and May
-- RL S., 68
