Sonnet

No climate is crankier than a crusty frost at dawn

Rock steady to frighten the toiling rays of a flimsy sun

Profound ‘ere a warm solstice is to a season reborn

The mood of a cold land is ripe for an unwelcome pun

It is fickle, melancholia; big fun when darkness is arisen

To ridicule as it might, warmer days of new vitality

And death withdraws, though alert to an irrational decision

That a right to a fatal act is born from urgent spontaneity.

Strong days come, to be a panacea for harsher frost

There are ways to creatively flange old memories of heat

Cautiously, for all of warmth’s familiarity misery is a cost

That a need is to get on with life is an ongoing feat

  Gone home the alarmed ones, home relaxing together

  A cold winter is drawing in, such is the weather.

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