Here I Await
[heptapent sonnet]
The Sun has been off, hiding, where its warmth is far from here,
its lustrous fingers stroking other planes.
And I, abandoned to the winter's ruthless time of year,
exist in hope that somewhere spring remains.
The wind will blunt the spirit like a whittler dulls a knife.
The darkened days will bleed intention dry.
It seems that surely all the world stands, tremulous and rife
with creeping cold, as icy snowflakes fly.
I long for gentle summer days, where bluebirds light and sing
from flowering trees where blossoms flutter down;
to dance with fireflies in sacred starlight, worshiping
the moonbeams, dressing me with lucent crown.
Here I await, with cherished hope that summer's melody
will loose the arms of winter's will that binds the joy in me.
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