ART & POETRY BY PAUL & KATHY BOECHER©
When Jack Frost comes through chilly nights, he paints a masterpiece,
The windows glow with scenes of snow, etched by his hand’s release,
The skies are bright cerulean blue, the trees have shed their leaves,
The fields are empty of their crops and we’ve brought in the sheaves,
We turn our thoughts to longer nights, the days grow shorter now,
We find relief beside a fire and we get by somehow,
It seems too soon for such cold days, though it is mid-November,
As we recall last winter’s grip, which started in December,
And lasted well into April, with a final blast of snow,
We hide inside our nice, warm caves, and wait for thirty below.
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