Jack Frost (Winter)

I hope this is lyric poetry. I'm not good at classifying poetry. In fact, poetry and I are really only acquaintances. Whether or not this is a poem is up in the air now too - I'm not sure if I want to try to set it to music or if I liked it as a poem better, but I'm leaning towards poem. If this is in the wrong place, please, please tell me. (The spelling "spritely" is on purpose.)

Jack Frost

Ice cold and sweet –
Winter, the way you walk
As frost cackles and snaps
Under your feet, and icicles –
Never before have I seen anything
That reflects the sunset, so terrifying.
Grotesque puppets of polar bears
And your favourite, the
Polar pears
Dance on their marionette strings;
Life. Like hope, only more productive.

Aurora Borealis –
My winter, how I wish to hear your voice
The swooping alto today,
Eerie soprano the next;
Winds, strong and silver,
Like beeches (and beaches) of snow.

(Do sing, the way you never did,
Before your receding coast lines,
And stay –
What do I say when I grow to miss your
Sharp wit, and delicate fingers like glass.)


Jack Frost –
I love your November laughter.
It is so spritely and bright,
The last fat, golden light
Before surrealism sashays in
And your pit-orchestra wolves
Sing you a ballet for the Moon;
Hard-hearted aristocrat,
Not even he can resist.


He cries –
Yes, Winter, he cries.
Pearly celestial droplets
In your clear sky, spinning themselves into galaxies
Like the streams you captivate under your hand,
They join you. Dizzy and lonely they join you.

(Please sing for me, as you never did
For your limpid icebergs.
Stay –
What will I say when I grow to miss
Your sharp tongue and delicate poetry)


What’s that, my beloved –
A blood bruise, healed and green.
It rests under your eye like Earth, under some god.
The wolves slow their song,
Three – four to four – four to
Eight – eight, and the frost stops whispering.
It’s run out of secrets to tell,
Just when ears want to hear them.

I miss you –
Terrible Winter, I miss your
Wind chime songs and baritone
Bears. Spring, for all her charms,
Her sweeping landscapes
And bright green eyes,
Is not ethereal ice, nor
The hopeful yarp of seals.
She is not cold and sweet,
As you are, singing to your receding coast lines.