First Frost

The season’s breath, a whispered veil,

Falls soft on earth, so hushed, so pale.

Grass blades glisten, silver-spun,

Catch threads of light from the waking sun.

A thousand crystals grace each leaf,

In morning’s soft, enchanted grief.

Brittle stems wear jeweled lace,

Fragile, gleaming, cool embrace.

And by the stream where reeds grow tall,

The frost has cast a sparkling thrall.

Each twig and branch, each sleeping vine,

Transformed in winter’s cold design.

Then, from the mist, a goose appears,

Feathers dusted white as tears.

He steps with care through frozen ground,

A lone explorer newly crowned.

His breath hangs thick in icy plumes,

Like wisps from winter’s own perfume.

With watchful eye and lifted wing,

He greets the dawn, a quiet king.

Beneath his step, the frost does break,

The fragile lace his footsteps wake.

Yet undisturbed, the earth lies still,

Its beauty cast in winter’s will.

And though the sun will soon arise,

To melt away this cold disguise,

For now, the world is caught, entranced,

In winter’s fair, elusive dance.

The fleeting magic fades too fast,

But winter’s spell, while brief, will last.

In memory bright, the goose takes flight,

A shadow lost to morning light.

So linger here, while frost holds tight,

To dawn’s brief glimmer, winter-white.