A frosty waft sails through his blanket
He writhes in the warmth of his sheets,
His ashen brows furrow as his eye meets
The calendar that he is never to forget.
'Tis almost the end of the autumn motley
The old man bethinks himself of his pact
With the child whose tongue won't redact
Until a snowflake descends on it softly.
He knows not though of the modest disquiet
At early morn that the young woman endures,
For the image of unruly wagons she conjures
On snowy highways they inconstantly striate.
His gaze pierces through the milky window
Straight at the verdant fir standing tall
Soon to be cloaked in a silvery shawl
Elegant but austere with nothing to show.
Powdery precipitation seemingly benign
Will soon result in routines so betossed,
For he's none other than Old Man Jack Frost
Snatching the last whit of warmth from thine.
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