“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;”
– Willam Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
This storm is not a shriek-wife,
misery’s rain of love gone cold;
Spring is not thrown down the stairs
by Winter’s violation of restraining order;
The missing sunset is not a corpse,
buried beneath clouds too grey for dead;
Because here inside, under wraps,
your eyes beget a Summer’s promise;
Once again, restored, the sun.