He shuffles along a worn path, carrying years of cold burden. His bent back is like a flower; (that once was pure and white) wilting. Each snowflake is a murmur to himself; each howl of the wind is a lonely call. And though he may freeze young cheeks and moisten their gazes, he is kind. For he does his duty after warmer seasons go to rest. He will go hand in hand with Mother Earth to take some things away, and to return others.
From his old, frozen skin to his fraying brown boots: he is the frost.
But when barren land is saved from drought, or when a child wraps their scarf around a snowman: he is watching.
And his frozen heart is warm.
