Tuesday, December 1, 2015

A sonnet from last winter

Frost in February

It’s winter, still, outside, the sullen snow
Still draining all the world I see of warmth.
I wonder, in these frigid shortened days,
When darkling sentiments begin almost
To crowd aside the memory of light,
What depth of frozen ground has overlain
The insubstantial seeds of hope, what frost
Now inches downward toward still hidden life.
              The sleeping groundhog underneath my porch
Might stir to promise Spring, some early burst of green,
An easy resurrection: but we know
Enough of hate to say this icy death
Will not pass quickly, that it never does,
But lingers in the heart where love has blazed.

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