First Frost

Beneath the hush of a velvet sky,

The first frost comes with a whispered sigh.

No herald calls, no tempest stirs,

Just silence wraps the earth in furs.

The stars lean low, their frozen breath,

A prelude sweet to autumn's death.

Each blade of grass, each leaf, each stone,

Wears winter’s crown, a frost-spun throne.

The world is glass, a fragile dream,

A fleeting dance of moonlight’s gleam.

Branches lace with icy threads,

While morning’s chill wakes flower beds.

A spider’s web, a glistening maze,

Shines brighter now in frost’s first haze.

Its fragile beauty, etched and clear,

Is born to fade, yet cherished here.

The air, so sharp, it cuts, it sings,

A melody on sparrows’ wings.

Each breath a cloud, a fleeting wisp,

As frost extends its tender grip.

Yet soon the sun begins to rise,

And frost retreats from warming skies.

Its jewels dissolve, its veil undone,

As daybreak claims what night begun.

But in that hour, so soft, so brief,

The frost bestows its quiet grief—

A glimpse of winter’s coming art,

A fleeting beauty stills the heart.

So let us hold this fragile sight,

This crystalline kiss of silver light.

For winter whispers, cold and near,

In frost's soft breath, we see it clear.