A cold winter’s morning gradually emerges from the dark,
dawn breaks – the sun rises.
The snow is a settled blanket yet to be touched;
waiting to be identified as different.
Bland and bare branches stare at the bleak sky-
leaves gone, once proud and noble;
but now it has been diminished to a skinny bone.
Frost shimmers across the bark in pearly patterns,
not given the appreciation it deserves.

Children now come forth,
gloves, hats, scarves: tightly wrapped up bundles of clothing;
despite the harsh cold, the children still frolic in the snow.
Snowballs whizz around, snowmen created and Angels born.

A new figure approaches – children stop and stare:
a hooded young man (maybe a boy) wielding a staff shaped like a crook;
a thin bony boy, repelling people away – someone to be left alone,
shrouded by a cloak of wolf skin, but also mystery,
snow exploded from his slender hands.
He is Jack Frost.
He makes winter.