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.

Not Yet September

Today I saw
some maple saplings
already turning red and gold.

You are too eager, baby trees.
For it’s not yet September.
Not yet.

Perhaps being so young,
they did not know
it’s still summer,
even though
it is getting colder.

The grown up trees know.
They’re still as green and leafy
as they were a month ago.

Now the autumn chill
seeps through the crack
of the open window,
and penetrates the thin fabric
of my sleeves.

My arms are cold.
Time to take out
the heavier things.

I won’t close the window.
For it’s not yet September.
Not yet.

Heavy December

It’s December in Sweden,
Darkest time of the year.
When we’re all needing,
Snow to bring us good cheer.
For our hearts to brighten,
And our souls to lighten.
Snow, if you please.
But it’s too warm to freeze.
So the wind just throws rain.
Endless rain at your pane.
Endless gloom fills the room,
Fills your head and your heart.
And your soul feels so heavy,
In the dark.

Funny Weather

You’re feeling quite sprightly,
Cause the sun shines so brightly.
Then the sky looks unsightly.

And the clouds begin forming.
Then without any warning,
It starts pouring and storming.

A downpour that’s so huge,
It’s almost a deluge.
There’s no shelter, no refuge.

You proceed with teeth clenched,
And discomfort entrenched,
Getting more and more drenched.

It comes down in buckets.
You couldn’t be more wet.
Then it makes a quick exit.

Thus as quickly as it came,
Someone shuts off the rain,
But your wet clothes remain.

And the punchline to this joke,
When the sun comes out to poke,
Fun at the all the sad wet folk.