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Frost's First Trick

Poem for The Sound of First Frost Challenge.

By Paul StewartPublished 2 months ago 1 min read
Frost's First Trick
Photo by Matt Seymour on Unsplash

The crisp crunch of a different kind.

Everything brown and dead has left.

Ethereal and surreal, for sure—

but the warning call,

the harbinger of winter's return,

is more grounded, less pristine.

<>

The first groan after the first touch

on a frosted car door and roof—

it burns and singes unleathered flesh.

Serene and brittle, the world aches;

the sun has forsaken us again.

<>

Scientifically, we know

the Earth has tilted on its axis,

though we didn't feel the 23.5-degree shift.

We felt its absence—

the sunlight's intensity,

lost to the harsh reality

that weather, like the accident of birth

to give forth nationality,

is but an accident of nature.

<>

It is neither warm nor cold,

it is positional—experiential.

The sanitised scents of spring's prelude

are a mind game, as are the colours

we see throughout the year—

those reds, greens, and yellows replaced

by blues, silvers, browns—

all cerebral illusions: optic, olfactory,

vestibulocochlear, facial, glossopharyngeal.

<>

Please echo the accent and cadence

of your own or Cutter's London drawl.

Where The Pledge becomes The Turn—

and all ends with The Prestige.

<>

The crisp crunch of a different kind—

everything brown and dead has left.

Ethereal, surreal—for sure—

but the warning call,

the harbinger of winter’s return,

is more grounded, less pristine.

<>

The white that cleans,

the white that dresses the world virginal,

in wait for spring's rebirth.

*

Thanks for reading!

Author's Notes: For those who don't get the references, this poem is inspired in part by my annoyance at poetic odes to the frost's appearance and the Christopher Nolan masterpiece The Prestige.

artElegyFree VerseinspirationalMental Healthnature poetryperformance poetrysad poetrysocial commentarysurreal poetryheartbreak

About the Creator

Paul Stewart

Award-Winning Writer, Poet, Scottish-Italian, Subversive.

The Accidental Poet - Poetry Collection out now!

Streams and Scratches in My Mind coming soon!

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Comments (11)

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  • Stephen A. Roddewig2 months ago

    "The white that cleans,/the white that dresses the world virginal,/in wait for spring's rebirth." Might just be the greatest description of snow I've ever read. Everyone laughs about me not calling myself a poet (I laugh, too), but it's reading words like that where I go, "See now *that's* poetry." Versus the typically quite literal prose poems I draft. Well done, sir!

  • Mark Graham2 months ago

    What a great way to teach about the winter season and the explanations that are real. Great job.

  • Oh wow, I didn't expect you to take on a scientific approach for this challenge. You nailed it!

  • Sean A.2 months ago

    Love that you’re making it your own, while poking at others a bit. For some reason, the line “it’s positional…experiential” stops me, makes me think. Feels borh scientific and poetic at the same time

  • Sandy Gillman2 months ago

    Such a thoughtful piece. I love the way you've balanced science and art.

  • Andrea Corwin 2 months ago

    "the white that dresses the world virginal" - those who have never driven an arctic city with streets piled at the curb with six feet and higher of snow that is dirty from autos passing, or cinders to unslick the roads, can call it this. Snow inside a deep fir forest can be described as silent, as footsteps are muffled under branches that hang low. Humid cold bites into us, and never think to put your tongue on an iced over pole like Ralphie in a Christmas Story. Nice job, Paul.

  • Andrea Corwin 2 months ago

    "the white that dresses the world virginal" - those who have never driven an arctic city with streets piled at the curb with six feet and higher of snow that is dirty from autos passing, or cinders to unslick the roads, can call it this. Snow inside a deep fir forest can be described as silent, as footsteps are muffled under branches that hang low. Humid cold bites into us, and never think to put your tongue on an iced over pole like Ralphie in a Christmas Story. Nice job, Paul.

  • Matthew J. Fromm2 months ago

    I'm a simple man, I see the Prestige and I get on my soapbox about how it's the greatest movie ever made.

  • Stephanie Hoogstad2 months ago

    I love how this poem goes against the tide of the typical poem to the changing of the seasons. It sounds so bitter, like the bitter cold biting at your hands if you’re momentarily stupid enough to touch snow without gloves. I might not get all the references since I haven’t seen The Prestige, but what I do get of it, I love!

  • Alex H Mittelman 2 months ago

    This poem is also tilted on its axis and has a fresh crunch to it! Great work! Very well done!

  • Shirley Belk2 months ago

    I love where your mind went to mesh The Prestige with the change of seasons, and the illusion which takes place. Well done !

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