Winter

Winter – (sonnet)

How sad and pale the tree is looking now
her faded skin, dry bones that now pierce through
and shiver every twig along the bough
as if she dreads what now may be her due.
Does she grieve the loss of summer’s face
when filled with life she whispered with the breeze,
or simply bow her head with gentle grace
to brilliance that waits beneath to ease
our aching hearts, for all, it seems, is dead.
There is no rush, the earth will slowly move
her way through darkness, new seeds to be fed
and once again her certainty will prove
that season’s change has come for reasons known,
embryonic life already sown.