Mischief

Early on a crisp winter's morning,
Sparkling above the land,
Two naughty friends
Work hand in hand.

As the sun peaks o'er the hills
Their mischief knows no bound.
They remain invisible though,
Not heard by any sound.

Forming ice upon puddles,
Someone to slip, was the game.
Jack Frost and the wind,
Too playful to tame.

Often frisky, was said wind.
Tucking fingers under skirt.
Giggle in animation they,
As was lifted a shirt.

So be wary of the spiritedness,
A vitality of such.
On a crispy winter's morn
Of two rascals, icy touch.