With the cold comes Jack Frost, but relying on superstition and blaming Jack for winter is asking for too much cancelled disbelief; it grows ever harder to even suspend it.
Without lost-in-misty-time fancies, without those easy comforts, Mr Frost is often judged a cold killer – and at best is dismissed brusquely as generally, often deeply, unpleasant.
Ascribed as the cause of death for admired plants and treasured animals, poor Jack will rarely escape blame – not even from the normally rational.
It seems the normally rational rarely accept death as the necessity it is, as the reality that it will be – as a reality to be welcomed when the time’s right.
But meanwhile there’s a beauty in Jack’s patterns; their fragmented awkwardness offers its own values, proffers you its rewards – if you stop to notice them.
(Click on any image to see the full sized pictures.)