Everything I lay my eyes upon lays lifeless dead.
The invasives and their rusted reds, near-maroons.
The browns of field grasses,
The matted metallic greys and silvers of
Ashes and Oaks stretching along and through
The distance past long stretches of highway.
The whites of so few falling snowflakes
They can be counted one by one,
Then they are gone.
These, the colored muted tones of earth;
Like near-winter has come to taunt.
I instead find these solemn-appearing things
Peaceful as I hear reassurances in the creakings,
The rustlings of forest branches as if to say
     All is well
And so Spring advances forward even though not
Seen, I can smell its musty aura upon the
Flooding torrents of late night and mid-morning
Rain storms soaking the world drab
In order that the palette might be rendered blank
For this year’s delicacy of color.


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