There is much to love here,
not the least of which is the lack
of snow always needing to be shoveled
when your back is most sore,
when you need to be somewhere
on a schedule the clouds chose to ignore.
But the one thing you cannot find,
the thing you never expected
to be that which you most miss
is the polychromatic season.
For here the trees, such as they are,
go from shades of green to beige
en route to dead, dropping fronds
as if to send a message that you
cannot hope or want to understand.
There are no leaves turning
infinite shades of orange, yellow, red,
purple, a palette that artists struggle
to replicate, ever changing before
the leaves are shed ahead
of the barren months of winter.
But miss it though I still do,
my back reminds me why it was
a wise decision to leave it behind.