Sonnet of the Winter.

And the leaves wither and die,
And lie in the frost beneath.
I wonder do every blooming; living thing ever
has an end so harsh and bleak.

Because this is a blizzard of despair,
There is a frost of sadness over everything.
And the snow mouse scurries for wisps of heat,
dry fluff, white wool and bits of string.

I wonder if life has its meaning,
over these stranded hints of strife,
When the Death comes over and mourning is over,
Will there still be a Life?