Sonorous Chills and Thrills of First Frost

Autumn begins her reign...September nears its end, waving au revoir...

Auf Wiedersehen, ciao, arrivederci, sayonara, Hej då, Näkemiin. Goodbye.

It's the transition from the warmth of summer to the chill of winter.

Temperatures start to drop...days become shorter as the Earth tilts away from the Sun. The changing colors of leaves and the harvest season beguile our senses...nature preparing for the upcoming winter.

Autumn stills...she listens for that resonant moment...when a gentle shift in her paradigm heralds a rich and grandiose pause...no longer may she flaunt her beauteous colors...an ominous chill is descending...

Something magnificently beautiful - poetically rich, profound and terrible in its fury, this way comes, she forewarns.

First frost approaches with a magnificent Sonorously quiet noisy silence

It brings a chilling chord-ed refrain of sound, which, when struck, resounds with a great imposing, impressive effect and style.

The kind of silence which is loud...deep and thunderous - filled with a rich crackling kind of grandiloquence.

Winter draws nigh...it heralds a reverence...It's first voice, the chill, does not shout - it whispers a stark, yet gentle warning

It plays the plangent sounds of an harpsichord...sadly melancholy, yet reverberating with a loveliness unsurpassed by any other of the seasons

For it chills the bones, ignites the hasty retreat of warmth...while anticipating the wild promise it every year fulfills for youth...the joy of romping in the frozen wonders to come

We reach for coats, boots, hats...some grab scarves...we prepare.

⟡ The First Chill ⟡ is the hour when breath turns to silver

The wind has changed its tongue, no longer summer’s honeyed sigh,

but something older, bone-born, bright, a whisper from the frost-eyed sky.

It walks the hedgerows, thin and pale, with pockets full of rust and rain,

and every leaf, like a falling grail, descends to earth with sacred prayer

The moon wears halos made of mist, the stars are seeds in cloudy soil,

and silence, like a lover kissed, unfolds beneath the season’s guile.

A fox steps out from bush to dream, its tail a brush of ember-ed flame,

it stares in wonder, half unseen - a trickster with no need for name.

Now every breath will bear the cost , of longing wished to harvest moon.

So gather close your cloak of lore, your talismans, your songs unsung -

the first chill opens winter's door, and calls the child come, have some fun.

Let fires crackle, let stories rise, let laughter haunt the curling smoke -

for in this dusk, the old world tries to speak again through leaf and oak.

First frost brings falling flakes and warm memories by the fire.

An invocation to the promise of transformation.