When I was just a little girl,
So much to my delight,
Jack Frost would paint our window panes
On chilly winter nights.
He seemed to favor woodland scenes,
With ferns, and leaves, and trees,
And the beauty of the brushstrokes
Looked like fairyland, to me.
“Oh, look,” my Mama’d point them out,
“How pretty,” she would say,
And we’d study them with baited breath
Before they’d melt away.
But times just keep on changin’
Mama’s gone, and I’m not young,
But I still recall the way that frost
Would sizzle on my tongue.
And we’ve insulated windows, now
That keep away the frost,
And I know that this is progress,
But it always has a cost.
Now, folks put up plastic stick’ums
You can buy in any store,
But Jack Frost doesn’t come around
To paint them, anymore.