Spring Market

The gilded flower grows astride the spring, sweet with rain from the demise of the ice. For every inch that hope grows, greed grows twice. Intoxicated by the thrill, they sing, And pay without thought for their wedding ring. Such opportunity seen, as cold melts. Ambitions reborn and lines spelt, to put claims for oneself over everything. My bones still ache from winter's cold embrace, And I see her coming afar through time. I know that future times will chill my face, and see wisdom in shoring up the brace. What luck that no men wish to save a dime! So now I sell, tomorrow, win the race. Written for "Petrarchan Sonnet" contest, sponsored by Craig Cornish