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Jack Frosts Helper
March 18, 2009
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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