I write more in winter.
Sadistically I enjoy cold hands
And letting old man winter think he’s won;
Or in summer I’m lost in the grip of life well lived.
Summer needs sonnets like winter needs melancholy ramblings
Or drams of the hard stuff.
I write more in winter.
Sadistically I enjoy cold hands
And letting old man winter think he’s won;
Or in summer I’m lost in the grip of life well lived.
Summer needs sonnets like winter needs melancholy ramblings
Or drams of the hard stuff.