Sonnet Iii
The first soft snows of winter falling now;
Clinically cold, the wind cuts like a knife.
The surgeon's scalpel deals a final blow
To the numb fabric of the summer's life
Whose yellow lingered in the autumn's leaves
And warmed my hopes and brightened my despair.
Threads of past winters brightly interweave
Bright music from the myths of youth time where
All things must end in joy. To cold white earth,
The crystal messengers from steel-grey sky
Assassin's tidings bring of the year's death.
The seed of hope must wait and must not die.
The circle holds its hope within its round;
In deepest Winter, Spring waits in the ground.
Kim Helen James
December 1996
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