The Steel Suburbs

Gray sky, brown earth.
Gray houses, brown trees
And street.
Late winter wasteland,
A barren tundra
Of the northern suburbs.

No snow to cushion us,
No rain to nourish us,
No fog.
Only hard, biting wind
And an endless, colorless
Emotionless, unforgiving sky.

When, if, spring should come
I’d like to see
Or hear
The first feeble pioneers of color
Entering a world of drear
As cold and hard as steel.