Extracting Green

Winter sleeps in the sky. Up there,
a frozen swamp. A shock of wet.

It douses summer leaves and does
strange things. It can send a bitter
chill in July, act odd as a full moon.

It'll leave you standing on a street,
condemned to shivering in June.

Winter doesn't seems to grow old.
Summer does though, daisies fade,
lose their bragging rights to fresh.

Fool that I was to cut my hair, my
neck's shackled to every icy day.

Meantime down at the lake,
the trees are melting into spring,
and extracting the juice from green,

ever faithful as a returning tide,
like I hope I'll do one day to heaven.