Sonnet To Vera Poem by James Mullaney

Our separation was like the season.
Its first frost, benevolently delayed,
allowed hope to flourish and be betrayed.
Yet we knew it followed, like a reason.
And how could we name its turning treason?
Steel skies and sterile darkness overlaid
the motley autumn canvas use had frayed.
Shocked, leafless winter hammered its freeze in.
Vera, Vera, dearest of all! Dearer
than stars of sterling on an astral vine
than paisley wraps when flurries flit nearer
than muscadine rhapsodies forged in wine
than April melting her moonlit mirror
to shower moss meadows and columbine.