Jack Frost In Summer

This is a cold world, frigid on the brisk, chill on the kiss of frost.
This is a cold world, but cold is not the same as lonely. Cold reminds us what the heat tastes like, and it combines us, shivering and new and one. It soothes us when we overheat, it sates and satisfies the thirsts inside of us. I bring that coldness, the deep cold, the soul-deep chill and I pack it and I store it, and I make the world a colder place in days that aim to burn us to a husk – dry and white and cracking in the breeze.
I play a tune to call the innocents into the world. They can forget the dangers of the road, where cats and cousins died a week, a year, or a generation before. The street is safe to my song. Danger knows to stay at bay – I will not allow it. Here, the children sing and cry, but never in tears. Never a scream, but one of hope and treasured gifts.
I work in dimes and quarters – some have moved on to dollars, or to two at a time. I don't need that kind of money. I don't want it. I work the week – a place I cannot even see in my mind's eye as the music plays. It is not my place. It is not me who works there. Here, I have a purpose. I bring the cold to the children, and they pay me in their warmth.
They smile at me, hair golden or brown or the darkness of exotic new horizons. Their cheeks a dozens shades of red or brown, they grin and lick and drink of the cold I bring them, the sweetness of it. My best will never taste as fine, will never bring the joy to me it brings to them. That joy, that sweet and delicate relief is my own cold, my own refreshment. As the music plays, we are all in a better place, a better world.
We are innocent.
When the music stops, I am not innocent. I have never sinned. I never will.
This is my penance and my simple joy.
I am a fairy prince, a storybook man. Without the cold and sweet and music, fairies terrify us all.