mean color challenged days
of deforested ambition, a
gaunt and dampened mood.
No star-struck bits of lace
to crystallize attention
and liven up the view.
No silent print of fox who
journeyed through the quarry
secretly at night.
Instead, a plainsong chant
with poverty of pitches
like bumblebees in flight
and colors that recall old
mushrooms decomposing
along the carriage road.
Such winters never grieve
at leaving us uncovered
and shivering in the cold.
