I grow weary of winter,
Sadness is too identic to the blizzards,
The misery feels like any January day,
The snow doesn’t resonate my grief amply,
The icicle xylophones no longer echo sufficiently,
And snowmen make poor clowns,
The cold only brings souls closer,
So internal hibernation becomes a vital chore,

Give me warmer climes,
I’d rather grieve in spring,
Pitting sorrow against new life,
I want tulips to brush my tears away,
For lambs to harken to my dirge,
To fade into fields of fresh green for hours,
Woe in winter feels like par for the course,
A world newly alive is a far better stage,

When the sun shines,
Sorrow feels like sorrow.

  1. Excellent imagery. I love the line…”And snowmen make poor clowns,”

  2. Carol anne says:

    very awesome! 🙂 xoxo

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