The First Frost

In the quiet hour before the dawn,

The earth exhales its final sigh.

A crisp breath stirs the stillness on,

As the first frost dances from the sky.

The moon, a ghostly silver crown,

Watches as the darkness wanes,

And whispers settle softly down,

Over fields that wear their frosty chains.

Each blade of grass, once green and bold,

Now wears a coat of diamond white,

A crystal thread of silver cold,

That shimmers in the fading light.

The world is still, but not asleep,

The frost is like a breath held tight,

The ground, a secret it will keep,

Until the sun renews the night.

Underneath the frost, the earth is turning,

The roots, the soil, in silent yearning.

Yet on the surface, all is still,

The frozen world has time to fill

With morning’s warmth and noon’s embrace,

But for now, a quiet space.

I walk through this awakening world,

My steps a soft and muffled sound,

As winter’s icy fingers unfurl,

Touching everything they’ve found.

The branches of the trees are bare,

Yet etched with frost as fine as lace,

Like ancient ink, they write the air

With stories only time can trace.

The first frost, a fleeting thing,

It clings to life with icy grace.

A perfect moment, just to bring

The chill before the sun’s embrace.

It paints the world in shades of blue,

In silver’s glow, the morning new,

And as the light begins to rise,

The frost melts down before our eyes.

I pause to watch the magic fall,

A fragile life, a world reborn,

Each icy shard a winter's call,

A song of earth, a whisper worn.

The world in that small moment’s grasp,

Where winter’s breath and autumn pass,

Leaves me standing, still and small,

At the threshold of the frost's last thrall.

For soon the warmth will come again,

And the frost will fade away,

Leaving behind a quiet strain

Of what was lost and what will stay.

Yet in this moment, clear and bright,

The world seems perfect in its white,

A silent symphony of cold,

That sings the stories yet untold.

The birds begin to stir, so slight,

Their wings a whisper in the air,

But still the frost holds through the night,

And coats the world with whispered care.

The morning's light, it bends and bends,

Until the frost must yield to it,

But in that time, the earth transcends,

Its final brush of winter's wit.

The frost is fleeting, soft and thin,

A moment’s beauty in the cold,

A secret shared by air and wind,

A story that is never told.

Yet in that fleeting touch of light,

A quiet peace descends tonight,

For though the frost may soon be gone,

Its magic lingers all day long.

I know the frost will not remain,

It melts, it thaws, it disappears,

But what it leaves, a quiet gain,

Is something deeper than our fears.

For in that moment, the earth’s soft sigh,

The frost, the cold, the moonlit sky,

All speak of time, and things to come,

A promise of the winter’s hum.

So let the frost fall, let it fly,

Let it settle where it may,

For in its touch, the earth will sigh,

And the world will learn to wait, to stay.

The first frost, with all its grace,

Shows us a moment in time, a place,

Where all things pause, and all things wait,

For winter’s breath to open fate.

And though it’s gone by noon’s bright light,

The memory of that frosty night

Will linger, soft, within our hearts,

A quiet song that never parts.

For in the frost’s brief, fleeting touch,

We learn what beauty means as much,

And how to pause, and simply be,

In the first frost, where all is free.