Winter
Sun, yellow.
Grass, green.
Sky, blue.
It’s all terribly cold still.
Not yet summer barely even spring.
The seasons are threatening a change.
I can’t feel a thing.
Jason Ridpath
SourceLicence:Public domain
Sun, yellow.
Grass, green.
Sky, blue.
It’s all terribly cold still.
Not yet summer barely even spring.
The seasons are threatening a change.
I can’t feel a thing.
The poem opens like a child's picture: sun, yellow; grass, green; sky, blue. The short, flat labels sound simple and confident, as if everything is in its right place. Then the speaker undercuts it. "It's all terribly cold still." The colors promise warmth, but the world hasn't delivered it yet.
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