Comments about Susan Crowe
Winter's Malady (Sonnet)
Frail Winter has soon taken to her bed
where stricken with a malady for days,
to sip her bitter tea with sorrow's bread,
her gown of rime now weathered as she prays.
The requiem is sung; no warmth remains
as icy shards of nightfall closes in
and darkness spreads like poison in her veins,
as slow and stealthy as a hidden sin.
'Yet nap for now, my sweet; your dreams be deep!
In fall we reap the fields; in spring we plant
while in the sacred womb of cold we sleep,
so be consoled with thoughts that thus enchant
as once more you will hold dear ...