I think of you when spring’s sweet breezes sing
And feathered blooms erupt in blissful joy,
Proclaiming death to winter’s gelid sting
And paints with green the withered, faded moors.
In nascent buds, dear thoughts of love arise
Like fresh beginnings praise may yet bestow,
With all pink promise that proud hope contrives
And with glad bounty vernal hearts propose.
In truth, fate robbed me of such precious bliss,
Like spring born blossoms razed by thundered might;
True love assured, now ever gone amiss—
Your golden grace forever fled from sight.
Though birds still sing and buds swell on the vine,
Rare joy in this does my heart ever find.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.