Find me unconscious in a creek,
leg twitching like a dog in dream,
with the threat of autumn's chill
I die below this hill.
I'll wake when frost forms at dew point,
rise from my slumber, pop my joints,
awestruck by fields of icy cream,
I skim its surface but I'm not meek.
Leave impressions faint and weak,
wind levels them until land gleams.
And with fine fingers I anoint
frost on windows of homes I appoint.
There are no offerings left on each sill
but I don't care for treats, they do not thrill.
I spiral frost, keep with the theme,
for I have icy havoc to wreak.
I won't contain myself to one creek.