Soft flakes are held aloft while drifting down to keep those splendid structures quite intact; Then up from pavement–piling on firm ground– they halt all urban bustle in its tracks; Strong plows have tried their best to push snow back, but once this weather starts I’ve lost control; It’s time to settle in, hear branches crack and with my quilts and ***** I'll fight the cold. How odd that every day has such a hold, hurling the musts and shoulds with all its might, until those tiny flakes conspire to scold nice days for their mad toil and grant respite: Sometimes it takes the ice and slush outside to truly feel the warmth from which I hide.
This is my first Spenserian sonnet. I'm getting behind on my sonnet game. I know Shakespeare won't be writing anymore, but that's no excuse for dawdling. 155 or Burst!