Getting ready for the first frost of winter

Getting ready for the first frost of winter

The wind bites softly through amber leaves,

edges curl and tremble like tired hands.

The sky bruises early, fading into gray,

light thins over fields that wait in hush.

Grass glistens damp beneath foot steps,

each blade slick, whispering as I pass.

The air tastes of smoke and wet earth,

summer clings faintly, reluctant to leave.

Birdsong drifts thin, a hesitant note,

piercing the gloom before silence descends.

Branches shiver, leaves try to cling on,

all the world seems to hold its breath.

Fingers graze the rough bark of the oak,

veins etched deep like old hands of time.

A fallen apple scents the chilled air,

decay mingling softly with autumn’s remains.

Steps crunch through scattered wet leaves,

sounds of time slipping quietly onward.

The river glints silver, cold and quick,

clouds drag slowly across the fading sky.

I draw my coat close, rough and warm,

chill biting lightly at lips and cheeks.

Shadows stretch, claiming edges of fields,

wind gathers, relentless, stirring the quiet.

There is a hush in everything tonight,

as if the world waits for a slow change,

for the invisible, ice moving through the air,

the sound of the first frost under my feet.