The frost lies on the ground,
he brings with him the chilling air,
crisp to the touch, stinging the throat.
He is the coffin in which the autumn’s leaves lie,
crunching underfoot, floating in the dying breeze.
He is the bitter edge on the wind, the one which reddens faces.
He is the floral death sentence, the gardener’s foe.
The weatherman’s quarrel, the Canadian curse.
He drives off geese, exiles squirrels,
banishes rabbits, and makes bears dreary.
He is the bringer of mittens, hats and scarves,
he is the bringer of hot drinks, and crackling fires.
Bringer of blankets, warm and deep,
and giver of car starting headaches.
He is the herald of the winter,
the messenger of snow.
He is the frost which the ground bears today.