Jack Frost
The Moon reached out, to wake Jack Frost,
And his coat of white appeared.
Ah haaaa he said, with the turned leaves red,
When he whispered through his beard.
The flowers of the summer past,
Have vanished over night.
Jack and the Moon have come too soon,
While the Sun was out of sight.
There is honking of the wild geese,
As they head to warmer climes.
Followed only by the wind blown clouds,
And days of harder times.
The Sun, now low, cannot support,
The life that lingers still.
The things that Jack has breathed upon,
Now fall against their will.
Jack pressed in vain against the pane,
To let himself inside.
But the glass stood tall and would not fall,
No matter how hard he tried.
By morning all that could be seen,
Were clues that he was here.
Droplets left on the windows,
As the Sun of the day reappeared.
Now you might consider Jack to be,
A Pro, who paints in white.
His canvas is the landscape,
That he works on every night.
The gallery where he shows his stuff,
Can be seen night and day.
On trees, on rocks, and windshields,
And on fields of non cut hay.
So go on Jack Frost, and color the world,
As you've done for many a year.
You, and the Moon, and I, well know,
Ol' Man Winter will soon be here.
With a brush that's a little wider,
He too is a Pro of White.
Then you both can work in unison,
On the canvas, every night.
Geo W. Donovan........... October 9th, 2006
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