Michael Coy Poet Sonnet

La Ronde

When crocuses first blazed beneath the trees 
as harbingers of warmth and light to come, 
I met you, and the curved continuum 
transported us beyond high summer's ease. 

Thanks be to God above that things rotate. 
The bloom is ruptured by late summer's breath: 
its seeds, in flying, validate its death. 
Our cycle is complete. The hour is late. 

Yet every night is scattered by a dawn, 
each fallen oak replenishes the soil. 
If life-in-death brings on us endless toil, 
the pains of birth and grief, I will not mourn. 

I know new shoots will strive up from dead ground, 
and love will flame again, though now snowbound.

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Darren White March 30, 2017 at 11:55 PM If time is bent, it might bring youi to where you were, though that might not be the best thing ever. Better is the cycle indeed, as long as knowing is not substituted by expectation substituted by hope alone. On love's ashes something new can grow, after each winter crocuses bloom. Does love too? Michael Coy March 31, 2017 at 1:51 AM We must hope so. Thank you, amigo.