Image: Jack Frost – The Sprite
A Book of Frost
Each winter sprite has walked the air a slave
To circumstances she once deemed her joy.
New rime that lined the stillness of her cave
Fetched folded hands of time to hold her buoy.
If sudden gales mount rushing at her back
Forcing chills that numb her mind to stone,
She will tame and temper every track
And feel the fasting marrow of the bone.
With pains she strains aloof becoming strong
Yet slowly limns the glad road down to time
Where never any being can belong
Without a pardon for an unknown crime.
Now she is slogging unbowed through the storm
To fling the book of frost to light and form.
—from Turtle Woman & Other Poems
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