Monotony in Seasons

winter is so
gray.
like the film of dust covering the books my mother left before she too became
gray.

the cold sky has silver clouds that scatter their misery in various manners,
like the different ways someone spills bad news in the air before you.

my favorite part of winter
is when
it is winter no more;
when the grayness that stitches itself into the horizon is
unsewn, and stained with youth.

when you can look at the ceiling of the world
and not expect a mirror that day.

spring permeates the atmosphere,
changing it from that dreadful, sullen
gray
to a spirited liquid azure that fills your soul
where the precipitaton of gray memories has poisoned it.

rebirth is addictive, but for some reason
people don't seem to realize their newfound excitement
started up above, where colors are all that feels.

(free verse, less than 25 lines)