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.
Your precious cells, with Mitochondria witness
degrading Telemeres, in Deoxyribonucleic Acid
marking time with wrinkling grey
protecting from cancerous pain.
Hauling yourself from crowded waves
to climb up trees, and jump out again.
The Tiktaalik Roseae, your very own
redraft of Archaeopteryx.
Bacteria on you, in you, are you.
More than you could hope to count
Outnumbering your cells, ten to one.
Your gut, a walking hotel.
A precious thumping heart
since yesterday, hammered
a hundred thousand times
in your living husk.
Yet Creationism denies
the fact of Evolution
And in God’s name
ignores the beauty.
Atoms of carbon
with water and
another thirty seven.
Electricity
you and me.
