Leaves, A Sonnet

J. Smythe with Sylvia Plath Amongst the trees he walked, a distant form, She, like the leaves, danced in the summer breeze. The plan, he'd hoped, would keep her safe and warm, Suddenly, she demanded her release. The summer passed, and lost to fleeting grace, She searched for luck, a four-leaf clover rare, Amongst the trees, a lost and lonely space, Where music had played, a sorrow she'd bear. No possibility remained to hold her near, The taste of honey, blossoms soft and sweet, A fading dream, now banished by the year, As winter's grip, a bitter, cold defeat. Still memories, in whisper, soft and low, Retains the warmth of love's forgotten glow.