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Jack Frost

Jack FrostFrost came knocking at my window last night.  Can you see his face?

Hollowed-out eyes, and nose sharp and thin. His crystalline head-dress sits tall on his head. A cape of icy feathers camouflages his form.

I could feel his bony fingers at my ribs.  A sharp cold that doesn’t go away.  That sinks in, dives deep.

Nothing an extra layer under a warm coat, or a cup of hot chocolate, or two, won’t tame.

But, for those not able to find easy warmth, we say a prayer that a seeing soul finds them, and pours warmth into them with steaming soup, and seeks refuge for them under rooftops, safe and warm. Refuge somewhere, where Frost won’t find them.