Sonnet 3 (The Cold Is Here)

The cold is here, the woods are full of snow

The river with its crusted banks of ice

Bespeak of winter drownings long ago

The chest pressed tightly, as though in a vise

The birds have flown away to warmer climes

The mammals in their caves to hibernate

The summer seems a lost and gentle time

When grass grew up against the swinging gate

The children's cheeks have turned a rosy red

The wealthy are beside their fires, warm

And then there's he who is without a bed

In which to lay and ride the raging storm

And in the graveyard, cold old bones do lie

And far above, the stars light up the sky