I cannot feign the hate have men
For Winter’s barrenness
Dull and brown are hill and fen
But, oh, I cherish this.
How grey, empty the winter sky
Bitterly watching the Springtime die.
But bare, the wash, as painter’s pallet
And canvas cleaned anew
It lacks obstruction and blots of paint
From plumes of trees up high;
It opens up, so beautifully
Without undue or blotchy dye.
What’s more creative, liberating
Than perceptions’ application
Upon the canvas of winter portraits
Of open sky ruminations?