Of Forecasts and Fair Maidens

The weather man just forecasted that...

‘Early sun will yield to cloud’

I wonder, does she willingly

Surrender to the morbid shroud

That snuffs the sparkle from the sea

And plucks the coral from the sweep

Of drifted winter icy-deep

Morning’s maiden youthful, gold

Must put her bright day-dress away

Does she rebel as she is told

To wear instead a robe of gray?

Is she demure or does she wail

Behind a melancholy veil

‘Early sun will yield to cloud’

Though now she spills in merry mirth

And holds her head up high and proud

As golden glory gilds the earth

Before her somber peers accrue

To hide away her gold and blue

© Janet Martin