Lost in Transit

Three weeks past the vernal.
The sun shines faithfully,
But barren winter lingers.
Stubbornly prolonging dormancy.
Still feeding on the decay,
Of the previous year.
Not a blade of grass grows,
Nor any flower blooms.
Skeleton trees stand naked,
And leafless in the wind.
Predominant brown denies green.
The flight of spring, delayed.
Though more likely cancelled.

English, motherfucker, do you speak it? J/K - it's ok if you don't.

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