Dampness of the Cold

A moth of early spring fluttered

By our listful ears

But we are snug inside

A snowglobe;

Barricaded from leaving too early

To go about our chromatic lives.

We are stagnant, freezing over

Unlike the dusty rain.

At least it can descend before

Drowning our day in a pretty scene.

We are tired of the emptiness,

The white walls of outside.

We want to drive with windows down

And smell the grassy fields.

But all we are allowed to smell

Is the dampness of the cold.