Hinges Under Frost

The gate in the backyard stiffens overnight.

Yesterday it moved with the loose ease of late warmth,

metal warmed by the stretch of a long dusk.

By morning the hinge has learned a colder voice.

It lifts a strained groan into the quiet,

a sound shaped by frost and thin dawn light.

***

My hand closes around the latch.

Metal pushes through the weave of my glove

with a sting that feels like morning iron.

Ice breaks in a narrow white seam

when the gate lifts from its resting place,

a bright precise crack

that carries the delicate truth of breakable things.

***

Beyond the fence the world has changed its tone.

Grass, stiffened into pale green needles,

chimes faintly beneath each step.

Cold tin lingers in the air.

Earth hides under a thin silver surface

that holds the breath of winter just beginning.

Every sound feels quieter

yet also cleaner,

as if the season is speaking without anything extra.

***

The gate closes behind me in a slow patient click.

Nothing harsh.

Nothing heavy.

Only winter settling into its place

with the steady confidence of something meant to arrive.

A boundary folds into itself,

and the year pivots toward its colder hour.

***

Frost gathers along the posts.

My breath rises in brief white clouds

that vanish as quickly as they form.

The field ahead glows under the early light,

every blade trembling, glass-bright,

as the sun lifts above the edge of the morning.

For a moment the cold feels like clarity,

a clean awakening,

the quiet shift into a new form

that winter recognizes before we do.