First Frost, a poem

The first frost of the season,
Winter drawing near.
Glistens and sparkles like faery icing
On the green we hold so dear.

Crisp leaves hold sleeping critters,
curled up in their warm abodes.
Their dens sprinkled with faery dust
Their nuts and berries stowed.

Jack Frost, he paints pictures
on the cold window pane.
But still remembers what’s come before,
Because he paints the leaves again.

His icy fingers trace the leaves,
in frosty patterns flowing.
More beautiful than Monet’s art.
In candle light aglowing.

Tread gently on the frosted grass
Each blade a sparkling spear.
The faeries have dusted green
to white each and every year.

Deep~Glade, November 2011

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