When Ben Hascomb told Beverly Marsh that her hair was like winter fire and his heart burned there, too, whose heart didn't melt? We're talking about Stephen King's It here, but it does seem like fall and winter poetry speaks so much more clearly than spring and summer poetry. No, it's not Naruda's cherry blossoms, but maybe that's because there's so much death and coldness in the fall and winter that the poetry warms us up in ways that we don't necessarily need in the spring and summer months.
Think about it: aside from keeping Ponyboy golden, which Robert Frost poem do you know best? Probably "Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening," right? From Keats to William Carlos Williams, there's no shortage of poets exploring seasonal poetry, and those poems might help us romanticize the cold seasons all the more. Why else would we love freezing and having to wear layers everywhere?
What's your favorite seasonal poem?