I stand at winter’s edge and plead for sun;
New England days of wintry light conceal
what warmth was present—now just slim to none.
The clouds do swell and all the lakes congeal,
cadet blue-sky that brings me no appeal.
The coldest winds of December relay
a sense of despondence that’s not ideal.
I perch on winter’s edge like birds of prey
and use my beak to plead for beaming warmth of day
I normally hate poems in which I have to rhyme and follow specific guidelines, but this Spenserian Stanza, written for my English Epic class, was fun to write.