You can sing for the summer
You can write for the fall
But for the artist
Winter, she bares no fruits at all.
Who wants to read of
a grey winter day
no one remembers to read
when the sun's gone away
the poets weep
for the snow on the ground
which is about as white
as mud, tracked around
Sure the snowflakes are different
but they all look the same
and there's too many footprints
from the children's games
yes the winter for the writer
is bleak, at best
yes the winter for the artist
puts a poet to the test
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
You can sing for the summer
You can write for the fall
But for the artist
Winter, she bares no fruits at all.
Who wants to read of
a grey winter day
no one remembers to read
when the sun's gone away
the poets weep
for the snow on the ground
which is about as white
as mud, tracked around
Sure the snowflakes are different
but they all look the same
and there's too many footprints
from the children's games
yes the winter for the writer
is bleak, at best
yes the winter for the artist
puts a poet to the test