Jack Frost just paints at night

With the cool weather we had last week, I was reminded of a poem by the late Lloyd Townsend that he shared with me.

"Jack Frost just paints at night"

With winter came the sleet and snow,

Raw air sneaked through the cracks;

Around the windows in the old home,

Outside doors, both front and back.

Feather beds piled high with covers,

All homemade and some were worn;

Handed down by our grandparent,

Down filled spreads to keep us warm.

Crank phone party-lines served tidings,

Radios were something new;

Twas a source of good and slander,

Pleasured parent -- offspring, too.

Cherished wintry scenes mind-boggling,

Which was perfect -- can't decide;

Rows of cornshocks dotting landscapes,

Housed wild game from storms outside.

Varied scenes styled on each window,

As we slumbered, free of fright;

Wondrous art, and I still wonder --

Why Jack Frost just paints at night.

Published in the Fort Scott Tribune on Nov. 5, 1988