This snow is not of moist.
This snow is brown.
A determined dust,
A blanket against the sun,
A Saharan smoke,
Its blizzard, a migration of dirt,
An agent of degradation.
This is Harmattan.
An unburdening occasion,
Befitting of a year's ending.
This brown,
Blistering and victorious, withers our solemn green,
Brings a relishing chill,
Breaks our skin.
Bit by bit, like our mother Earth, we shed our dead skin.
And when it carries this conquest farther south,
It leaves the sun burning mad,
While we long for some moist in the air, not on our brow,
While we long for things to be green again, not this brown.