More fun with the sonnet form.
It’s only Spring who sings to me this morn,
With hair like honey gold and cool blue eyes.
The Winter ravaged fields she’ll soon adorn
With buds that wait for rain drops from the skies.
Seeds that lie beneath the ground in death,
Before Spring’s fertile sister will rejoice:
Hot-eyed Summer, who with empassion’d breath
Dances naked to rhythms of her choice.
I hear nymph-like Summer softly singing,
A carnal alto, her footfall’s soft descent.
Her perfume the soft caressing breeze is bringing.
Her sultry spell upon me won’t relent.
I close my eyes and dream about the day
When in the flowered fields entwined we lay.
Stephen P. Smith