Winter Gales (A sonnet)

Aeolus was not kind to this young pine
that prostrate lies, still green, beside the way.
Winter’s cold, lonely duties snapped its spine
as dancing light of dawn gave way to day.
My soul’s acute, scholarly aspiration
was like this pine, strong, green, and adolescent.
It has not crashed from Boreal spiration.
It withers slow, a moon no longer crescent.
My God, these hopes deferred have left me ill.
How long must I a craftsman only be?
I know not how these longings still to till,
when failure, when postponement’s all I see.
“Ask, ask, my son, seek seek what you desire,
I’ve promised this; I won’t be found a liar.”

March 7, 2021. Rocky Gap State Park, Maryland.

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