~ X ~
Sir Winter hath his frigid tune declared
With blast of snow ‘pon wind that gusteth fierce.
But I, perchance, am not so unprepared
My body warm with blankets nought can pierce.
Though sleet and rain and pellets icy fall
Upon the ground and mire where’er I go,
My repast take I warmly in my stall ~
No need to be outside in ten below.
But all is not as bleak as it may seem
As longer grow the days t’ward Lady Spring,
And of the warmer hours do I dream ~
Imagination is a wondrous thing.
So, let Sir Winter wail his frigid song,
For as the days unfold he’ll thaw, e’er long.
This sonnet is not new. In fact, it is the tenth in a 25-sonnet collection entitled, Sonnets from Poet’s Paddock: A collection inspired by Shakespeare, a poet out standing in his field. One day I may publish it.
Shakespeare, my muse, died tragically of torsion colic on November 21, 2017. He was my heart horse; the one who saved me from myself. Through these sonnets and other writings, he helped me find, and have confidence in, my voice. He thawed my frigid, unhappy heart and then warmed it up and brought it to life again.
I honour his memory by living the lessons he taught and sharing the creativity inspired by him. All the sonnets in this collection are in his voice, except the epilogue written just days after he departed and the torch had been passed to me.
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