Stroll outside

And you will see

Exactly what is missing

To me.

 

For the trees

Are dead.

The trees

Are brown

And creak lifelessly

Barely a sound.

 

The winter is bleak

For no colors will grow.

The only excitement bearing

Is fresh fallen snow.

 

The thing I dream

To see, though,

Is just a little

Bough of green.

 

Something that
Bears life

In this barren

Wasteland.

 

For the rain to pour

And produce life.

Little green buds

Sprouting with no strife.

 

To see birds

Chirp and hop

From green to green

Is the scene

I dare to dream.

 

To lie in fields of green

Where the breeze warms

And watch things grow

And be reborn.

 

But alas, I fear

That I must wait

For at least a month more

For the cold,

Brown,

Grey,

And lonely world

To abate.

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