Sonnet for the Coming Winter

Four fine seasons are granted us,
Winter hones our bones to survive,
Fruitless to fuss, useless to cuss,
Connive we must, to stay alive.

Unplowed burdensome drifts to slog,
Snowflakes, like hornets stinging skin,
Bottled inside the dense frozen fog,
Some fear to be caught out again.

Crunching footsteps, icicled 'stash,
Underneath crushing weight we plod,
Teeth obliged to chatter and gnash,
Such is winter's austere facade.

Until then, with hearths burning bright,
We'll slumber warm throughout the night.

FOLDER

My Poetry  (E) Come as you are. #2034965 by Vanishing Vapor