Jack Frost has been playing again:
doing his best to please his friends.
Once upon a distant time,
I thought he was a friend of mine.
His snowballs, sledge runs and snowmen
were hours of fun when I was ten.
Outside the window, it’s two feet deep.
I wish Jack Frost would go to sleep,
but still snow falls in bursts and flurries,
to slow down those who always hurry.
Some folk think it’s really sweet
to see the village, white and neat.
I know now, that it’s not so nice
to head out on the bitter ice
and drag a child from Daddy’s car,
knowing she’ll be permanently scarred.
An angry gash of crimson glow:
a Nike swoosh upon the snow.
Still the traitorous snowflakes drift.
Tonight he’s on the graveyard shift.
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