Cold: a terza rima sonnet
How can it be cold, frost nipping the air,
When all of the trees sport leaves in full flame,
Except for those that are already bare?
Those naked trees must be shiv’ring in shame
Amongst all their fashionable brothers.
“We’ve nothing to wear!” they woefully claim.
They would be warm if they had their druthers,
But the autumn wind has left them undressed,
Left to eye the bright frocks of the others.
As the temperature falls, they are distressed,
Crying out their sad plight as they shiver,
“The cold, bitter, wind puts us to the test!”
The sun drops down low, light just a sliver,
While bright leaves float away on the river.