Jack Frosts Helper

March 18, 2009
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In the early morning light,
The sun peaks it head above the mountains.
The cool crisp air,
Chills your spine.

The ice clean and smooth,
Quiet and still.
The sterling silver blades touch the surface
You glide as if weightless

Your cheeks turn red
In the brisk winter air
But this cold is not real,
Man made it
Same with the ice,
Jack frost never paid a visit here.

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