Bland Are The Moods of Winter

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Benign and blameless~
the mist clad, bland morn of December,
like a lingering gasp of cerise,
yearns for polychromatic epistles
scribbled on canvas of March,

Robbed of lush verdure
after transient lure of burnished golds,
denuded boughs shiver beneath
quilting heaps of winking snowflakes in
the faint honeydew sunshine.

Within frostbitten soil’s depths
the daffodil bulbs slumber
dreaming golden dreams,
while the meads hanker after
colors and fragrances of flowers.

Nights are silent
and draped in mystical fog,
unspeckled in stardust sighs
and the moon finds solace from
nocturnal vigil under
blankets of cotton wool clouds.

Its hues faded, lost, stolen,
a colorless winter
broods in its armchair of nostalgia,
reminiscing of bygone
versicolor springs
golden summers and cinnamon falls…

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