#5 Poem in a traditional form
(Shakespearean Sonnet in Iambic Pentameter)
His icy breath like wind upon the soul,
midst rugged cliffs and mists he hunts alone
with sharp yet weary eyes as black as coal
that swallow ev’ry secret he has known.
Perhaps he’s merely stirring in the trees—
of oft he only watches from afar—
perhaps his voice is riding on the breeze,
to call the young and hungry off to war.
But sometimes when you feel his eyes upon
the bare and crawling skin behind your neck,
he edges nearer than you see, anon,
until you spy a floating flake, a fleck
of frozen flesh or frosty dust of bone
for to announce that Winter has come home.