I Wish This Was A Poem In Praise Of Winter, But–

Stuck to the gray sky
brushed hills of ghostly trees
their black bones barely showing
Here in town, white billows rise
from every morning’s
industrious factory

Just once, let the smokestacks
puff out grass green robin
egg blue yellow of new leaves
almost open oh let there be
letters to the editor
protesting color pollution
while someone inside
ignoring the press
cooks up spring