is momentarily halted by the frost's silver embossing.
Already, the morning's sun has driven away
the night's glittering gifts.
Across the lot with its roughly broken clay,
the electrical and sewer pipes stand, waiting.
Perhaps, they're waiting for an infusion
of capital in the housing markets or
maybe, the gentrificators have forgotten them, again.
As long as people wonder at the glistening ice
on slender green blades
and perceive the sun rising,
they'll think less of water molecules
crystallizing and aligning at angles
and more of Jack Frost's etchings
and his questioning,
"Are you cold fair maid? Are you chilled?"
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