On this Morning Day of Winter Cold
On This Morning Day of Winter Cold
A web of spiders spread icebound
On this morning day of winter cold
and hang from lofty roofs, whose height bring round,
drafts and chills, yet webs prove a constant hold.
Houses lay remote in a cloudy fog,
and in several murky shades of distance.
Puddles of rain spread throughout the bog,
where clouds gather a steamy substance.
Soft blurred street lights bring shine to cars, slog
through cold wisps blowing with diligence.
Frosty streets layered with ice, camouflaged,
in the midst of foggy abundance.
Few bundled coats and flying hair ajog,
in the early morning of sun's absence.
Note: This seems to be the first version of the poem. I know that I have a second version (which follows the rules to a sonnet better), but can't seem to find it. :(
When it comes to poetry, I really am a poor judge of what is considered "good" as opposed to "bad". So feel free to point out the positives and negatives.