Poetry-Thing Thursday: Due Alas

Cold wind blows,
over ice-trapped crests.
The waves don’t crash,
for they too are frozen,
immobile,
immutable.

Sun sinks low.
Invisible behind gray skies.
No colors shift:
neither from red to orange,
nor blue to black.
There is,
only gray.

There is no warm.
No cold.
Only frigid.
And blistering.
The latter’s nowhere to be found,
in a season of the former.

Still we wish,
hope and dream,
of warmer days,
and sights unseen,
but they never come,
and though avast,
we seek them out,
with due alas.

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