Season’s first frost

A whispered touch of winter's hand,

As dawn breaks cold across the land.

The earth, once warm, now slowly freezes,

Each breath of air a sharp reprieve.

A silver veil upon the trees,

The frost curls softly, then it flees.

A quiet shimmer coats the ground,

A world reborn without a sound.

Each blade of grass, a crystal thread,

Each leaf, a jewel, once golden, dead.

The early sun, too shy to rise,

Unveils the morning's pale disguise.

The sky, a canvas brushed with gray,

Reflects the quietness of day.

The breath of winter, soft but near,

Fills the air with crystal clear.

The ground beneath, a patchwork quilt,

Of frost and earth, together built.

No foot has touched the sparkling sheet,

The world is still, its pulse discreet.

A robin's wing cuts through the chill,

A moment’s grace on frozen hill.

The frost, a fleeting work of art,

That soon will vanish, to depart.

But for this hour, so rare, so fine,

The world is paused in silver time.

A beauty fleeting, swift to go,

Like winter’s kiss—just soft, just snow.