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A Touch Of Winter's Woe
Perhaps the snow has wrought a heart of stone,
and winter’s numbed the reach within my soul,
for moodiness has quelled desire’s goal,
and smothered self with seeds disdain has sown.
The once ambitious blood that coursed a vein,
flows passionless, like rivulets of ice,
and inspiration, trapped by winter’s vise,
lies stifled ‘neath despair’s relentless reign.
If e’er again the sun should choose to shine,
and melt this frigid blanket o’er my heart,
then surely weariness could soon depart,
as passion fills that space of woe’s design.
I’ll laud that warming touch of old Sol’s glow,
when winter’s rendered still with spring’s hello.
