Where's the Sun

I want to write like the sky is azure

and the smell of freshly cut grass tickles my nose;

as if the sun's rays cavort on my skin,

the warbler sings me a tune and I smile from my soul.

I want to write as if the day collides with night and my home is found in the ocean tides.

But the clouds are grey and winter has made me a depressed pessimist once again.