It is an ugly time of the year
brown is the prevailing color.
The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,
the brown of trees stripped of all
but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.
It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home
and left on every carpet,
the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.
The clouds are low, soiling themselves
as they drag through the dirt,
tomorrow the dirt will return to mud
for it will surely rain,
rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,
just cold rain and mud,
always, there is mud,
and tracks on the carpet.
January brown is the brown of wet wood
and pine straw littering a forest floor,
it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,
it colors the mood and dampens the soul
like a shallow mud puddle
laid across your path.