Monochrome

March 26 2017

On the cusp of spring

the world is monochrome.

Unbroken cloud

the same dull white

as the sodden snow.

A vague horizon

where land and sky merge.

And in the narrow in-between

dripping eves

iced, and over-flowing.

Naked trees

with thinly branching limbs

as if arthritic from cold.

Islands of brown

where the ground is exposed,

bare, but frozen.

The chill damp

of the saturated air

cuts to the bone.

There is no brightening, looking up;

only milky light

from everywhere at once,

a middling sun

through constant cloud

as if through frosted glass.

So there is no telling time

only season.

Waiting

for the earth to tip

into colour, heat.

Before the sky blues, grass greens, buds open;

before the drip-drip-drip of spring

becomes a torrent.

Before a late winter storm

blows in from somewhere north;

fresh snow, once more

whiting-out the world.