First Frost

The morning comes with whispered breath,

A chill that stirs the earth from rest,

And in the hush of dawn’s embrace,

A silver sheen paints nature’s face.

The grass, once green, now dressed in white,

A glittered carpet, soft and light,

Each blade a crystal, delicate,

As if the world is holding fate.

The trees stand still in frosty grace,

With branches laced in winter’s lace,

Their limbs adorned with sparkling thread,

A crown of ice upon each head.

The air is crisp, a quiet song,

Where silence lingers, pure, and long,

And every breath that leaves the chest,

Is caught and held in frozen rest.

Beneath the sky, so pale and wide,

The earth sleeps deep, the world aside,

While winter’s first, shy kiss is cast,

A fleeting magic that won’t last.

The robin sings in voices small,

A song that echoes through it all,

The cold a shiver, sharp and true,

Yet winter's beauty, soft as dew.

And though the frost will soon retreat,

It leaves a mark, so pure, so sweet,

A glimpse of what the coming days

Will bring in snow and icy haze.

So let the frost, with quiet might,

Fill morning air with frozen light,

For in this fleeting, silvery bloom,

Winter’s magic paints the gloom.

In every flake, a world is born,

In every breath, the earth reborn,

The first frost whispers what we know:

Winter’s beauty, pure, will grow.

And though the frost may fade away,

Its memory lingers in the day,

A first kiss from the winter’s tongue,

A song of ice, unsung, unsung.