Stroll outside
And you will see
Exactly what is missing
To me.

For the trees
Are dead.
The trees
Are brown
And creak lifelessly
Barely a sound.

The winter is bleak
For no colors will grow.
The only excitement bearing
Is fresh fallen snow.

The thing I dream
To see, though,
Is just a little
Bough of green.

Something that
Bears life
In this barren
Wasteland.

For the rain to pour
And produce life.
Little green buds
Sprouting with no strife.

To see birds
Chirp and hop
From green to green
Is the scene
I dare to dream.

To lie in fields of green
Where the breeze warms
And watch things grow
And be reborn.

But alas, I fear
That I must wait
For at least a month more
For the cold,
Brown,
Grey,
And lonely world
To abate.