Stretch

Stretch away dear wintery grasp, you shall
Not succeed in your stretch, not last in your
Fell spell of cold flurries made not in tall
Beams of light, the greatest of May's bright chore.
But say you to me it's not time yet, fight
Shall I until the end, and I will bet
That there is chance still of frost's blight, abhor
Me if you will, though you cannot stop me!
I shall return in time as raging seas
Do conquer land's, our weeping deep tides be
Ever on the offensive, we stride free
Of any restraint save the hand of God!
But I say you may stretch away, I laud
The great God, while you wait for the end's spree!  

                                                   Stretch, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012