It's almost the Year-Anniversary of this poem. I thought that, seeing as winter is getting the boot soon, this little jaunt would be appropriate.
Color
Grey or Gray, it's a sallow day
during the fearsome roar of march
on top of reddened clay there is no green or play
no vibrancy, this land is parched
The tops of trees rattle, bare, in the breeze
with only the dead leaves to shade
but, up, a green shoot squeezed, into the light it eased
and color will follow this small blade.
It all Explodes and the gray erodes
and the song of the seasons changes
the warm wind blows and the soft rain flows
and on these hils, heavens' color graces
So don't cry, child, for life is now mild
though forever, this cannot be
Through springtime's smile and through winter wild
Color ebbs and flows like the sea.
Color
Grey or Gray, it's a sallow day
during the fearsome roar of march
on top of reddened clay there is no green or play
no vibrancy, this land is parched
The tops of trees rattle, bare, in the breeze
with only the dead leaves to shade
but, up, a green shoot squeezed, into the light it eased
and color will follow this small blade.
It all Explodes and the gray erodes
and the song of the seasons changes
the warm wind blows and the soft rain flows
and on these hils, heavens' color graces
So don't cry, child, for life is now mild
though forever, this cannot be
Through springtime's smile and through winter wild
Color ebbs and flows like the sea.
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