What for others is crisp, clean,
Waking up to an altered landscape,
your ice-laden purity,
fails to bring the allure of promise.
Instead I see a future with
streets dressed in black, brown and grey-hued
mounds of solidified exhaust
I'll build no snowmen;
I'll forgo an icy descent
belly-down on plastic,
face inches from the
But you'll mock me nonetheless,
your pristine sameness interrupted
by a parade of turquoise and fuchsia wool.
I too once believed
your myths of home and hearth
of exploration and adventure
of endless beauty and wonder
But now I know you can only
the luscious pain and beauty
I've see every day.