Sonnet II: For Ice

I mourn the lack of something dear but lost.
I know its value now that it is miss'd.
In thirst, I search the desert for the frost,
the smallest dewdrop that the winter kiss'd.

My throat and tongue are bored by lukewarm drink;
for tiny hints of fall I sniff the breeze.
I pray for snow despite what others think,
and long for lake and stream and rain to freeze.

The land where I now dwell is full of fear.
The people shy away from winter's cold.
They cannot drink; the water is not clear,
and fleeting summer is to them as gold.

They cannot know the anguish that I felt
when southern breezes caused the ice to melt.