Winter's Malady (Sonnet)
Frail Winter has soon taken to her bed
by Susan Crowe
where stricken with a malady for days,
to sip her bitter tea with sorrow's bread,
her gown of rime now weathered as she prays.
The requiem is sung; no warmth remains
as icy shards of nightfall closes in
and darkness spreads like poison in her veins,
as slow and stealthy as a hidden sin.
'Yet nap for now, my sweet; your dreams be deep!
In fall we reap the fields; in spring we plant
while in the sacred womb of cold we sleep,
so be consoled with thoughts that thus enchant
as once more you will hold dear Spring at bay.
How could you think yourself both old and gray! '