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Late Winter Poem
I do not like this time of year. Although there is some warm weather.
I do not want the nights that are getting shorter as time goes on.
They get cold, the way frozen snow cones feel in your warm and moist mouth.
Nights make me shiver and wear an extra pair of earmuffs and pants.
I do not appreciate the days, which are getting longer as time passes.
They get as warm as the sun beating down sharply on a hot beach.
This makes me want to fan myself and not wear a coat or scarf.
The weeks and few months change, but with no colour.
No green leaves hatch open on the trees, no pink flowers grow from the ground, nor do light blue splashing streams run down the purple hills with freshwater.
Trees look like spiky needles amidst the plan. Soil is bitter chocolate.
Ugly snow has not left the mountains that are as tall as the clouds.
It is just staying there like a boring statue would.
I walk out of my house and dirty snow falls on my hood.
I see the glass forests have melted, and the bare trees only have sharp and scary branches.
Red buds have not emerged. When they do, it would be a forest covered with tiny cherries.
I see a sun shine, but not a sun that is warm and gold.
It only has pale white, the colour of something old.
I know the animals are snoring and are still inside their cozy caves.
The little shops and boutiques in town have windows that are a big sheet of glass. People just pass.
Children cannot go running and jumping and climbing outdoors in this weather. They must look at toys and books.
Many people are slicing vegetables, potatoes, and pasta and mixing it up in boiling water.
Shivers and itchy noses jump from person to person, like a frog going from rock to rock.
Yes, this is just a plain big painting, making it a sad time of year,
The late winter, Dear.