February Sonnet of Sonnets (continued) # 8 There are ill winds borne of January when hope turns cold, and then the long nights breed suspiscion, so dreams oft die before they end. When it seemed tomorrow had begun the deep snows greeted my return, and suddenly it was yesterday, as I was forced once more to learn the awful pains the heart endures while it suffers out love so held to the breast to keep it warm. But such bitter snows have felled many the careless traveler ventured on the way and the ill winds of January bury them as they lay. 2/8/99 # 9 I read the writing on the wall and it made me cry to see it all -- the hopelessness and despair of visions vanished into thin air. I'd laid my cards out in full view and played my hand, only to lose the game, set, and match, to have the marlin escape the catch, to spill the rum that I had thought would rescue my heart. I had fought a good fight, but in the end, defeated in my cormer, I slumped again. Staggered, I did not even hear the bell. I simply lay where my dreams fell. 2/8/99 # 10 There comes that time in the midst of the storm when it seems the sun will never come out to warm the earth, that time caught in February's snare when every dream becomes mid winter's nightmare, when the kisses that seem to promise such hope fade in the darkness that loneliness evokes. The promise of the love that you offered me and was matched by that growing passionately within my heart through each night and day since I first held you to me now seemed gone away. And I sat before the fire now long gone out while the kisses that had warmed me now all turned to doubt. False prophets of a redemption, prophecys all untrue, these kisses now echo I will never have you. 2/9/99 # 11 My love brought me flowers in February, but they were of the summer kind, and just when hope seemed forever lost, I turned to look one day, but to find not tulips but the rose in full bloom so and I ravished its fragrance so as to know every aspect of the rose so red, and on its delicacy, I fed. Once, nay twice, I swooned inside, and would have done so a thousand times for my love brought me flowers in February, and resurrected my dream and design. My love brought me flowers at mid-winters' mark and brought to my soul a mid-summer's lark. 2/9/99 # 12 The promise of love is the promise of birth, the miracle of Spring moving on the earth, the marvel of the tide as it grows to the shore, the cycle of the moon as it fills, the roar of Niagara as it rushes to complete its fall, the bud of the rose replete within it the full blossom of its bloom, and the fragrance with which it will fill the room, the full flower of summer within each sprout that comes on each branch or ventures out of the earth, the acorn that harbors the tree, such is the love you've engendered in me. The promise of love is the magic of life that is sown 'neath the harsh cold of winter's snows as they're blown. 2/9/99 # 13 I love you as I love the Spring as it lends new life to everything, as I love the sunrise as it breaks just over the horizon and makes a velvet sky painted in glory's hue, as the climbing sun draws up the dew, and as my heart beats only in time with each beat of yours, and as I'm imprisoned in your garden of earthly delight, and chained by each full moon's light, as a child in birth is set free from its mother's love -- bound freely! I love you as I love my very life's breath, and I will love you until the day of my death. 2/9/99 # 14 A sonnet of sonnets dedicated to thee which tell the tale of the love that has grown in me. A circle now completed, a tale left yet untold, still huddled for protection from the rage of wind and cold. Within the earth, the crocchus now struggle to spring out toward the warmth that the climbing sun will bring, while my heart imprisoned, would find your sun and bring forth the blossom of love newly begun. Yet, the promise of tomorrow's new spring and the summer that proceeds on it, and would sing the joyous song that such love would provide may perish or bloom in what your heart would abide. Spring's child is coming; endless summer may be it's lot -- but only tomorrow will find what it is love's begot. 2/9/99 Return to Beginning of Bavarian Mason