The sky is the color of dishwater,
The clouds never move.
We all hate the darkness of winter, the endless gray.
But I wonder,
Do the clouds feel hurt?
We find their very existence an aversion.
They did nothing wrong.
Can we show them any love?
I can’t.
But I wish I could.
Feb 21
Feb 21, 2026 at 1:15 PM UTC
The sky is the color of dishwater,
The clouds never move.
We all hate the darkness of winter, the endless gray.
But I wonder,
Do the clouds feel hurt?
We find their very existence an aversion.
They did nothing wrong.
Can we show them any love?
I can’t.
But I wish I could.
New York winters are brutal.
