First Frost Listening

The air forgets how to be warm.

Evening leans in, all breath and silver hush.

A single leaf drifts down—

slow as if thinking twice about letting go.

Smoke climbs from unseen chimneys,

curling like old songs no one remembers the words to.

The sky bruises from amber to ash.

Somewhere, a gate creaks—

its voice tired, its purpose small.

The world smells of apples gone soft,

wet bark, and the faint, metallic promise

of ice finding its form.

Your hands remember

how to cup warmth like prayer.

The wind combs through dry grass,

making the sound of pages closing.

Not yet winter.

But the light—

you can feel it choosing.