Jack Frost

You whisper in every ill-prepared ear,

“Summer’s over--winter’s here.”

You wisp and swirls a mass of thick vapor,

Round your victims with dry limbs outstretched--

Empty, gnarled hands raised to their Maker,

Whiles the wind doth break them, limb by limb,

Splits back the white wood, with all leaves trimmed.

Your prints irregular in the snow sketched.

See how he struggles against your icy blast,

His load on bent shoulders, his grey head downcast.

The road, with his dirt, once packed firm and strong,

Is sloshing down highways, drifting in long--deep ruts.

The children do cry when they hear your fierce words,

Drop their hard snow balls, flee from your sword.

Into their warm houses they swarm like bees,

And peek out their windows, now ill at ease.

You stealthily climb down the chimneys, creeping,

Then dash across wood floors, whilst the family is sleeping.

You’re the cause of most deaths, from the chill of outdoors;

Though Death claims to many, you outdo him by scores!

You nip at the beggar, on your doglike haunches,

Steal him away, his blood your hand staunches.

I wonder how you lift your cold head so,

And can face all the world--each time the wind blows.

The snow glistens with your breath, in solid malice,

Your work is in crystals, chalked in the ice.

Then spring comes with a shout, and bids you,

“Go away! Winter is over--you cannot stay!”

Then you look with reproach on your ill-fated day,

Bundle to splinters, and well fade away.

The only mark left (that you were here at all)

Is your voice on the wind--and a deep, mocking call.