Frosty Poem by George McConnell

Though the mighty winters fire is stoked, the breath and blast of ages past...

removes the heat which made us glad to remember the childhood

longing for mothers lap.

There is that place alone below the hearth that still engenders warmth

...though only when we steal away alone at night.

Jack Frost, we think....

has crept upon our bones, that draft, we feel below the kitchen door

withers the toe beneath the gown!

Till winter recantes even in our dreams...
we won't be satisfied...

Till morn and coffee cleans the web from off the snore and spring believes itself again...

So that we may walk amidst the breeze and the life worth living and the lovely trees.