~~~ Sonnet to spring lovers’ fidelity ~~~

It needs to be renewed or, say, to have
Its scab picked off to expose again the raw
Wound; love needs its pain revivified.

When does a mother feel more intensely her?
Love for her child than in the night's dark hours
When the innocent infant burns with fever?
Pity, if it does not curdle, anneals, making love stronger
Returning to a wife, what brute would not?
Adore her, pity her trust, and adore her more?

He feels the original ache, his ardor vivid
As in the beginning.
Merely to stay home is to dare dullness, to settle.
But this more active choice is refining,
The instant's honesty, even, perhaps, a kind of fidelity.

For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins…

And time remembered is grief forgotten,
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green under wood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
A happy wife and a content husband momentarily…