Between Breath and Frost

The forest holds its breath.

Under my boots, the soil still hums—

dark, damp, alive—its scent

rises like the memory of rain.

Each step crackles softly,

a chorus of crisp goodbyes beneath me.

Leaves, once green as laughter,

flare into fire—

red, yellow, bronze—

their final dance a slow surrender.

I can almost hear them sigh,

their fragrance sweet and tired,

a whisper of endings becoming beginnings.

The air shifts.

It nips at my cheeks,

threads its chill through the seams of my coat.

Above, the trees grow bare and brave,

their arms etched in silver breath.

Hoarfrost gathers,

a crown of white crystals

turning bark into glass,

shadow into shimmer.

The world quiets.

Every sound—a frozen echo,

every scent—clean, sharp, clear.

Even the sky feels nearer now,

stars pricking through the cold like sparks.

I tilt my face upward,

and for a moment,

the silence feels enchanted—

as if I might catch the jingle of reins,

the soft rush of hooves through night.

Winter is coming,

but not yet.

I stand in the in-between—

where autumn exhales her last warm breath

and winter draws her first.

And in that fragile pause,

the world glows—

crisp, wild,

and utterly alive.