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.