The Prodigal Sun

Its presence withheld, the world is different shades of grey,

Ripples are preserved perfectly on the surface of watery rivers, frozen in time,

Trees are bare and branches stick out like awkward bony fingers;

They poke the icy sky softly bursting at the seams; torn, its contents escape,

Woolly snow drifts down comfortably, settles in and changes the landscape:

Everything sparkles blinding white, everything is one color, in harmony,

The air is heavy with a chill only it can help dissipate, and no birds sing.

Brief flashes of its golden beams warm the easily delighted heart, instill hope,

Cruel, heartless winds lash out at souls daring to brave the blue cold,

Testing their mettle, their resolve, reducing them to a huddled mass.

Return! the masses implore, Bless us with your gracious fire, mighty orb!

Unyielding, stubborn, playing hide and peek, mostly hiding, rarely peeking;

Decks, balconies, patios, swings are made useless by its conspicuous absence.

Survival, survival depends on it, nothing thrives without it–except vampires,

And we need no more of them, thank you very much, not in daylight nor in twilight–

Nothing grows–Return! Only greys fill our gaze, our vision seems cheerless!

Snow glares, imprisons Nature’s magnificent colors–Return! Melt it! Free the hues!

All cries, all pleas, all prayers to the great, big, blazing ball of fire are in vain…

Desperate months will crawl by before it bestows affection upon its subjects,

Its bright return will bring a joyful, relieved smile to a bleak, anxious, eager visage,

Its merciless absence will be forgotten and forgiven: It has returned

And that is all that matters; blessed be the Sun; the Sun is back, long live the Sun!